V 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 


THE 

CRESCENT  MOON 


BY 

FRANCIS  BRETT  YOUNG 

AUTHOR  or  "MARCHING  ON  TANGA" 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Firtt  printing January,  1919 

Second  printing March,  1919 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 


CHAPTER  I 


\\7 HEN  I  stepped  on  to  the  platform  at  Nairobi 
I  hadn't  the  very  least  idea  of  what  I  was  in 
for.  The  train  for  which  we  were  waiting  was  due 
from  Kisumu,  bringing  with  it  a  number  of  Indian 
sepoys,  captured  at  Tanga  and  Jasin,  whom  the  Bel- 
gian advance  on  Taborah  had  freed.  It  was  my  job 
to  see  them  into  the  ambulances  and  send  them  off  to 
hospital.  But  when  I  got  to  the  station  I  found  the 
platform  swarming  with  clerical  hats  and  women  who 
looked  religious,  all  of  whom  couldn't  very  well  have 
been  swept  into  this  degree  of  congregation  for  the 
sake  of  an  odd  sepoy's  soul.  These  mean  and  ill- 
dressed  people  kept  up  a  chatter  like  starlings  un- 
der the  station  roof.  It  was  a  hot  day  in  November, 
and  the  rains  were  due.  Even  six  thousand  feet  of 
altitude  won't  stimulate  you  then.  It  had  all  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  sticky  school  treat  in  August  at  home 
.  .  .  Baptists  on  an  August  Bank  Holiday.  That  was 
how  it  struck  me. 

And  anyway  it  was  a  nuisance :  I  couldn't  get  my 
ambulances  on  to  the  platform.     "You  see,  sir,  it  isn't 


2  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

a  norspital  train,"  said  the  military  policeman,  "only 
a  nordinary  passenger  train  from  the  lake." 

I  asked  him  what  all  the  crowd  was  about. 

"They  say,"  he  replied  cautiously,  "as  the  mission- 
aries is  coming  down.  Them  that  was  German  pris- 
oners." 

So  that  was  it.  And  a  few  minutes  later  the 
clumsy  train  groaned  in,  and  the  engine  stood  pant- 
ing as  though  it  were  out  of  breath,  as  do  all  the 
wood- fuel  engines  of  the  Uganda  Railway.  The 
shabby  people  on  the  platform  sent  up  an  attempt  at 
a  cheer.  I  suppose  they  were  missionaries  too.  My 
wounded  sepoys  had  to  wait  until  these  martyrs  were 
disgorged. 

Poor  devils.  .  .  .  They  were  a  sad-looking  crowd. 
I  don't  suppose  Taborah  in  war-time  had  been  a  bed 
of  roses :  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  one  couldn't  help  feel- 
ing that  these  strange-looking  creatures  invited  perse- 
cution. The  men,  I  mean.  Oh  yes,  I  was  properly 
ashamed  of  myself  the  next  moment :  but  there's  some- 
thing about  long-necked  humility  in  clerical  clothes 
that  stirs  up  the  savage  in  one,  particularly  when  it 
moves  slowly  and  with  weak  knees.  Now  to  the  cheers 
tears  were  added.  They  wept,  these  good  people,  and 
were  very  fluttered  and  hysterical :  and  the  prisoners, 
poor  souls,  looked  as  if  they  didn't  know  where  they 
were.  It  wasn't  they  who  did  the  crying.  I  dare 
say,  after  all,  they  were  quite  admirable  people  and 
felt  as  sick  at  being  slobbered  over  by  over-emotional 
women  as  I  did  watching  the  progress.  Gradually  all 
of  them  were  whipped  off  into  cars  that  were  wait- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  3 

ing  outside  and  conveyed,  no  doubt,  to  Christian  homes 
where  the  house-boys  come  in  for  evening  prayers. 
All  of  them  except  one.  .  .  . 

I  had  noticed  her  from  the  first :  principally,  I  imag- 
ine, because  she  seemed  horribly  out  of  it,  standing, 
somehow,  extraordinarily  aloof  from  the  atmosphere 
of  emotionalism  which  bathed  the  assembly  as  in  weak 
tea.  She  didn't  look  their  sort.  And  it  wasn't  only 
that  her  face  showed  a  little  tension — such  a  small 
thing — about  the  eyes,  as  though  the  whole  thing  (very 
properly)  gave  her  a  headache.  And  I  think  that 
if  she  hadn't  been  so  dreadfully  tired  she  would  have 
smiled.  As  it  was,  nobody  seemed  to  take  any  no- 
tice of  her,  and  I  could  have  sworn  that  she  was 
thankful  for  it.  But  that  wasn't  the  only  reason  why 
I  was  interested  in  her.  In  spite  of  the  atrocious  black 
clothes  which  she  wore,  and  which  obviously  hadn't 
been  made  for  her,  she  was  really  very  beautiful,  and 
this  was  a  thing  which  could  not  be  said  of  any  other 
woman  on  the  platform.  But  the  thing  which  most 
intrigued  me  was  the  peculiar  type  of  beauty  which 
her  pale  face  brought  back  to  me,  after  many  years. 
This  girl's  face,  happily  unconscious  of  my  gaze, 
was  the  spring  of  a  sudden  inspiration  of  the  kind 
which  is  most  precious  to  those  who  love  England 
and  live  in  alien  lands:  it  brought  to  me,  suddenly 
and  with  a  most  poignant  tenderness,  the  atmosphere 
of  that  sad  and  beautiful  country  which  lies  along 
the  March  of  Wales.  Other  things  will  work  the 
same  magic:  a  puff  of  wood  smoke;  a  single  note  in 
a  bird's  song;  a  shaft  of  sunlight  or  a  billow  of  cloud. 


4  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

But  here  the  impression  was  inconceivably  distinct ;  so 
distinct  that  I  could  almost  have  affirmed  the  exist- 
ence o'f  some  special  bond  between  her  and  that  coun- 
try, and  said :  "This  woman  comes  from  the  Welsh 
Marches  somewhere  between  Ludlow  and  Usk,  where 
the  women  have  pale  skins  of  an  incredible  delicacy, 
and  straight  eyebrows  and  serious  dark  eyes,  and  a 
sort  of  woodland  magic  of  their  own.  And  their 
voices  ..."  I  was  certain  that  I  knew  what  her 
voice  would  be  like:  so  certain  that  I  took  the  risk 
of  disappointment  and  passed  near  her  in  the  hopes 
that  soon  somebody  would  speak  to  her  and  then  she 
would  answer.  I  didn't  have  to  wait  long.  A  bustling 
female  who  oozed  good  works  drew  near.  She  held 
out  her  hand  in  welcome  as  she  advanced. 

"Well,  my  dear,  are  you  Miss  Burwarton  ?" 

And  my  girl  shivered.  It  was  a  little  shiver  which 
I  don't  suppose  anyone  else  noticed.  But  why  should 
she  have  shivered  at  her  own  name? 

She  said :  "Yes,  I'm  Eva  Burwarton." 

I  was  right.  Beyond  doubt  I  was  right.  The  "i" 
sound  was  deliciously  pure,  the  "r"  daintily  liquid. 
Oh,  I  knew  the  sound  well  enough.  My  vision  had 
been  justified. 

The  bustling  woman  spoke : 

"My  dear,  Mr.  Oddy  has  been  telling  me  about  your 
poor  dear  brother.  So  sad  .  .  .  such  a  terrible  loss 
for  you.  But  the  Lord  .  .  ." 

I  didn't  hear  what  precisely  the  Lord  had  done  in 
this  case,  for  a  group  of  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  pale  blue 
uniforms  and  white  caps  passed  between  us;  but  I  saw 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  5 

the  appropriate  and  pious  gloom  gathering  on  Mrs. 
Somebody's  face,  and  in  the  face  of  Eva  Burwarton 
not  the  shadow  of  a  reply,  not  the  faintest  gleam  of 
sympathy  or  remembered  grief. 

Good  Lord,  I  thought,  this  is  an  extraordinary  girl 
who  can't  or  won't  raise  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid  when 
she's  being  swamped  with  condolences  about  a  brother 
to  whom  something  horrible  has  evidently  happened. 
And  then  the  busy  woman  swept  her  away,  and  all 
the  length  of  the  platform  I  watched  her  beautiful, 
pale,  serious  face.  And  with  her  going  that  sudden 
vision,  that  atmosphere  which  still  enwrapped  me, 
faded,  and  I  turned  to  the  emptier  end  of  the  platform, 
where  the  wounded  sepoys  were  squatting,  looking  as 
pathetic  as  only  sick  Indians  can.  And  I  was  back 
in  Nairobi  again,  with  low  clouds  rolling  over  the 
parched  Athi  Plains,  and  the  earth  and  the  air  and 
every  living  creature  athirst  for  rain  and  the  relief 
of  thunder.  A  funny  business.  .  .  . 

But  all  that  day  the  moment  haunted  me:  that, 
and  the  girl's  white  face  and  serious  brows,  and  the 
extraordinary  incongruity  of  her  ill-made,  ill-fitting 
dress  with  her  pale  beauty.  And  her  name,  Eva 
Burwarton,  which  seemed  somehow  strangely  repre- 
sentative of  her  tragic  self.  At  first  I  couldn't  place 
it  at  all.  It  sounded  like  Warburton  gone  wrong. 
And  then  when  I  wasn't  thinking  of  anything  in  par- 
ticular, I  remembered  that  there  was  a  village  of 
that  name  somewhere  near  Wenlock  Edge.  And  once 
again  with  a  thrill  I  realised  that  I  was  right. 

And  after  that  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  her.     I 


6  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

can't  exactly  say  why.  I  don't  think  it  was  for  the 
sake  of  her  physical  attractions:  indeed,  when  I  came 
to  speak  to  her,  when  in  the  end  she  was  driven,  poor 
thing,  into  a  certain  degree  of  intimacy  with  me,  I 
believe  this  aspect  of  her  was  quite  forgotten.  No 
...  I  think  the  attraction  which  she  exercised  over 
me  was  simply  due  to  the  curious  suggestiveness  which 
clung  to  her,  the  thing  which  had  set  me  dreaming  of 
a  place  or  an  atmosphere  which  it  was  an  ecstasy 
to  remember,  and  the  flattering  discovery  that  I  had 
something  more  than  imagination  on  which  to  build. 
And  then,  when  my  friendliness,  the  mere  fact  that 
we  had  something,  even  if  it  were  only  a  memory,  in 
common  had  surprised  her  into  getting  the  inexpressi- 
ble story  off  her  mind,  the  awful  spiritual  intensity 
of  the  thing  was  so  great  that  everything  else  about 
her  was  forgotten ;  she  became  no  more  than  the  fra- 
gile, and  in  glimpses  the  pathetic,  vehicle  of  the 
drama.  Nothing  more :  though,  of  course,  it  was  easy 
enough  for  anyone  who  had  eyes  to  see  why  poor  old 
M'Crae  (alias  Hare)  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 


n 

But  at  first,  as  I  say,  it  was  nothing  more  than  the 
flavour  of  the  country-side  which  she  carried  with  her 
that  held  me.  When  next  I  saw  her  she  had  shed  a 
little  of  that  tender  radiance.  She  had  been  furnished 
by  some  charitable  person  with  clothing  less  grotesque. 
She  certainly  wasn't  so  indefinitely  tragic;  but  now 
that  she  was  less  tired  her  country  complexion — so 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  7 

very  different  from  the  parched  skins  of  women  who 
have  lived  for  long  in  the  East  African  highlands — 
made  her  noticeable. 

She  had  been  dumped  by  Mr.  Oddy's  friend  (or 
wife,  for  all  I  know)  into  the  Norfolk  Hotel,  the 
oldest  and  most  reputable  house  in  Nairobi,  and  it  was 
in  the  gloomy  lounge  of  this  place  that  I  was  intro- 
duced to  her  by  the  only  respectable  woman  I  was 
privileged  to  know  in  the  Protectorate.  She  said : 
"Cheer  her  up  ...  there's  a  g-'od  fellow.  She's  lost 
her  brother,  poor  thing!  A  missionary,  you  know." 

And  I  proceeded  to  cheer  up  Eva  Burwarton.  My 
methods  didn't  answer  very  well.  It  was  obvious 
that  she  wasn't  used  to  the  kind  of  nonsense  which 
men  talk.  She  took  me  very  seriously,  or  rather, 
literally.  I  thought:  "She  has  no  sense  of  humour." 
She  hadn't  ...  of  my  kind.  And  all  the  time  those 
frightfully  serious  dark  eyes  of  hers,  which  had  never 
yet  lost  their  hint  of  suffering,  seemed  full  of  a  sort 
of  dumb  reproach,  as  if  the  way  in  which  I  was 
talking  wasn't  really  fair  on  her.  I  didn't  realise 
then  what  a  child  she  was  or  a  hundredth  part  of  what 
she  had  endured.  I  knew  nothing  about  M'Crae  (alias 
Hare)  or  Godovius,  or  of  that  dreadful  mission  house 
on  the  edge  of  the  M'ssente  Swamp.  And  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  fortunate  vision  of  mine  on  the  station 
platform  I  don't  suppose  that  I  should  ever  have 
known  at  all.  The  thing  would  have  passed  me  by, 
as  I  suppose  terrible  and  intense  drama  passes  one  by 
every  day  of  one's  life.  An  amazing  thing.  .  .  .  You 
would  have  thought  that  a  story  of  that  kind  would 


8  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

cry  out  to  the  whole  world  from  the  face  of  every 
person  who  had  taken  part  in  it,  that  it  simply  couldn't 
remain  hidden  behind  a  pale,  childish  face  with  puz- 
zled eyes. 

But  when  we  seemed  to  be  getting  no  further,  and 
whatever  else  I  may  have  done,  I  certainly  hadn't 
cheered  her  at  all,  I  brought  out  the  fruits  of  my  de- 
duction. I  said: 

"Do  you  come  from  Shropshire  or  Hereford?" 

Suddenly  her  whole  face  brightened,  and  the  eyes 
which  had  been  gazing  at  nothing  really  looked  at  me. 
Now,  more  than  ever,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  their 
childishness. 

"Oh,  but  how  do  you  know?"  she  cried,  and  in 
that  moment  more  than  ever  confirmed  me.  I  know 
that  inflection  so  well. 

It  was  Shropshire,  she  said.  Of  course  I  wouldn't 
know  the  place;  it  was  too  small.  Just  a  little  group 
of  cottages  on  a  hilly  road  between  the  Severn  and 
Brown  Clee.  I  pressed  her  for  the  name  of  it.  A 
funny  name,  she  said.  It  was  called  Far  Forest. 

I  told  her  that  veritably  I  knew  it.  Her  eyes 
glowed.  Strange  that  so  simple  a  thing  should  give 
birth  to  beautiful  delight. 

"Then  you  must  know,"  she  said,  "the  house  in 
which  I  was  born.  I  can't  believe  that  I  shall  see  it 
again.  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I've  only  dreamed  about 
it.  Although  it  was  so  quiet  and  ordinary,  it's 
just  like  a  dream  to  me.  The  other  part  is  more 
real.  .  .  ."  And  the  light  went  from  her  eyes. 

But  I  think  it  did  her  good  to  talk  about  it.     She 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  9 

was  cheering  herself  up.  And  between  us  we  pieced 
together  a  fairly  vivid  picture  of  the  scattered  group 
of  houses  above  the  forest  of  Wyre,  where  the  high- 
road from  Bewdley  climbs  to  a  place  called  Clows 
Top,  which  is  often  verily  in  cloud.  There,  we  agreed, 
a  narrow  lane  tumbles  between  cider  orchards  to  a 
gate  in  the  forest,  that  old  forest  of  dwarf  oak  and 
hazel;  and  there  the  steep  path  climbs  to  a  green 
space  at  the  edge  of  a  farm,  where  there  is  a  duck- 
pond  and  a  smooth  green  in  which  great  stones  are 
embedded,  and  nobody  knows  where  the  stones  came 
from.  And  from  this  green  you  can  see  the  comb  of 
Clee,  Brown  Clee  and  Titterstone  in  two  great  waves, 
and  hear,  on  a  Sunday  evening,  the  church  bells  of 
Mamble  and  Pensax,  villages  whose  names  are  music 
in  themselves.  And  if  you  came  back  over  the  crest 
at  sundown  the  lane  would  bring  you  out  on  the  main 
road  exactly  opposite  to  the  little  house  in  which 
her  father  kept  the  general  shop.  Over  the  door  there 
was  a  weather-beaten  legend:  "AARON  BURWARTON, 
Licensed  to  Sell  Tobacco";  and  if  it  were  summer- 
time as  like  as  not  Aaron  Burwarton  himself  would 
be  sitting  at  the  door  in  a  white  apron,  not  smoking, 
for  he  disapproved  of  tobacco,  even  though  he  sold 
it,  and  the  westering  sun  would  light  up  his  placid, 
white-bearded  face.  People  live  easy  lives  in  those 
parts  .  .  .  the  quietest  under  the  sun.  All  the  walls 
of  the  house  were  beaten  and  weathered  by  wind  and 
driving  rain;  and  inside  you  would  inhale  the  clean 
provocative  odours  of  the  general  shop:  soap,  and 
bacon,  and  a  hint  of  paraffin.  She  was  delightfully 


10  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ingenuous  and  happy  about  it  all,  and  I  was  happy  too. 
We  sat  and  talked,  in  the  gloomy  Norfolk  lounge; 
and  outside  the  tropical  night  fell:  the  flat  banana 
leaves  stirred  against  the  sky,  the  cicalas  began  their 
trilling  chorus,  and  on  the  roof  of  the  verandah  little 
lizards  stole  quietly  about.  It  was  a  surprising  thing 
that  we  two  should  be  sitting  there  talking  of  Far 
Forest.  I  said  so.  I  said:  "Why  in  the  world  are 
you  here?  What  were  you  doing  in  German  East?" 

Now  I  could  see  she  was  not  afraid  of  letting  me 
into  her  confidence.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  wasn't 
glad  to  do  so.  Even  if  it  didn't  "cheer  her  up."  It 
was  a  long  story,  she  said,  beginning,  oh,  far  away 
at  home.  The  whole  business  had  followed  on  quite 
naturally  from  a  chapel  service  at  Far  Forest  when 
she  was  quite  a  child.  Her  brother  James  was  a 
little  older  than  herself.  And  her  father  (this  not 
without  pride)  was  an  elder  of  the  chapel.  A  Mr.  Mis- 
quith,  she  said,  had  driven  up  from  Bewdley  to  preach 
about  foreign  missions:  about  Africa.  Father  had 
driven  him  up  in  the  trap,  and  he  had  stayed  to  din- 
ner. James,  she  said,  had  always  been  a  clever  boy 
and  very  fond  of  books.  It  had  been  father's  great 
wish  that  James  should  some  day  enter  the  ministry. 
Not  that  he  would  have  influenced  him  for  a  minute. 
Father  held  awfully  strong  views  on  that  sort  of 
thing.  He  believed  in  a  "call."  I  wondered  if  she 
did  too.  "No,  I  don't  think  I  was  born  religious," 
she  said.  But  James  was.  .  .  . 

We  were  launched  into  a  detailed  recital  of  James' 
childhood,  and  it  gave  me  the  impression  of  just  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  11 

queer,  centripetal,  limited  sort  of  life  which  you  could 
imagine  people  living  at  Far  Forest,  a  life  that  sought 
ideals,  but  ideals  of  such  an  incredible  humility.  I 
don't  think  I  had  ever  realised  the  horizons  of  an 
average  Nonconformist  family  in  a  remote  hamlet  be- 
fore. Old  Burwarton  himself  was  very  far  removed 
from  that,  and  as  for  the  children  .  .  .  No;  it  was 
in  relation  to  the  events  that  came  afterwards,  the 
story  that  was  gradually  and  in  the  simplest  manner 
shaping  before  my  imagination,  that  the  environment 
of  the  Burwartons'  childhood  struck  me  as  humble 
and  limited.  People  who  are  brought  up  in  that  way 
don't  usually  find  themselves  forced  into  a  highly  col- 
oured tropical  melodrama,  or,  what  is  more,  take  their 
places  in  the  scheme  of  it  as  if  they  had  been  specially 
created  for  that  purpose.  It  was  for  this  reason  that 
I  was  content  to  consider  James  in  some  detail. 

He  had  been,  she  said,  a  delicate  child;  but  always 
so  clever.  Such  a  scholar.  That  was  how  she  seri- 
ously put  it.  The  little  glazed  bookshelf  in  the  par- 
lour had  been  full  of  his  school  prizes,  and  the  walls 
with  framed  certificates  of  virtue  and  proficiency  and 
God  knows  what  else.  And  at  quite  an  early  age  he 
had  learned  to  play  the  harmonium.  .  .  .  "We  had 
an  American  organ."  I  don't  know  what  an  Ameri- 
can organ  is,  but  I  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  picture 
of  James  playing  Moody  and  Sankey  hymns,  which, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  deal  mainly  with  THE  BLOOD, 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  while  old  Mr  Burwarton  sat  by 
the  fireside  with  a  great  Bible  in  his  lap.  Later  she 
showed  me  a  photograph  of  James.  "He  was  sup- 


12  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

posed  to  be  very  like  me,"  she  said.  And  perhaps  he 
was.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  certainly  had  the  same  straight 
brows,  the  same  colouring  of  ivory  and  black;  but  his 
mouth  was  wholly  lacking  in  that  little  determined 
line  which  made  Eva's  so  peculiarly  attractive.  And 
I  am  almost  sure  that  James  had  adenoids  as  a  child, 
for  in  the  photo  his  lips  were  parted,  his  nose  a  little 
compressed,  and  the  upper  lip  too  short.  And  later, 
she  told  me,  because  of  the  headaches  which  came  with 
"too  much  study,"  he  had  to  wear  glasses;  but  in  the 
photograph  which  she  showed  me  you  could  see  his 
dark  eyes,  the  distant  eyes  of  a  visionary.  I  suppose 
in  the  class  from  which  he  came  there  are  any  num- 
ber of  young  men  of  this  kind,  born  mystics  with  a 
thirst  for  beauty  which  might  be  slaked  in  any  glorious 
way,  yet  finds  its  satisfaction  in  the  only  revelation 
that  comes  their  way  in  a  religion  from  which  even 
the  Reformation  has  not  banished  all  beauty  whatso- 
ever. They  find  what  they  seek  in  religion,  in  music 
(such  music!  .  .  .  but  I  suppose  it's  better  than  noth- 
ing), in  the  ardours  of  love-making;  and  they  go 
out,  the  poor,  uncultured  children  that  they  are,  into 
the  "foreign  mission  field,"  and  for  sheer  want  of 
education  and  breadth  of  outlook  die  there  .  .  .  the 
most  glorious,  the  most  pitiful  of  failures.  That,  I 
suppose,  is  where  Christianity  comes  in.  They 
don't  mind  being  the  failures  that  they  are.  Oh  yes, 
James  was  sufficiently  consistent.  .  .  . 

From  school,  the  existence  of  a  "call"  having  now 
been  recognised,  James  had  passed  to  college — the 
North  Bromwich  Theological  College.  Theology 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  13 

means  Hebrew  and  New  Testament  Greek,  a  timid 
glance  at  the  thing  they  call  the  Higher  Criticism, 
and  a  working  acquaintance  with  the  modern  pillars 
of  Nonconformity.  From  the  study  of  Theology 
James  had  issued  in  the  whole  armour  of  Light,  ready 
to  deal  with  any  problem  which  human  passion  or 
savage  tradition  might  put  to  him. 

One  gasps  at  the  criminal,  self-sufficient  ignorance 
of  the  people  that  sent  him  to  Central  Africa,  at  the 
innocence  of  the  man  himself,  who  felt  that  he  was 
in  a  position  to  go;  for  forlorner  hope  it  would  be 
impossible  to  imagine.  Here,  as  in  other  cases  of 
which  I  have  heard,  there  was  no  shadow  of  an  at- 
tempt at  adjustment.  James  Burwarton  went  to  Lu- 
guru  to  battle  with  his  personal  devil — and  he  hadn't 
reckoned  with  Godovius  at  that — very  much  as  he 
might  have  gone  to  a  Revival  meeting  in  the  Black 
Country.  Fortified  with  prayer.  .  .  .  Oh,  no  doubt. 
But  I  wouldn't  mind  betting  he  went  there  in  a  collar 
that  buttoned  at  the  back  and  a  black  coat  with  flap- 
ping skirts.  To  Equatorial  Africa.  I've  seen  it.  One 
of  Eva's  friends  from  Taborah  was  wearing  one.  Nor 
was  that  the  only  way  in  which  I  imagine  his  hope 
forlorn.  He  had  gone  there  with  the  wrong  sort  of 
religion:  with  the  wrong  brand,  if  you  like,  of  Chris- 
tianity. You  can't  replace  a  fine  exciting  business  of 
midnight  n'gomas  and  dancing  ceremonies  by  a  sober 
teaching  of  Christian  ethics  without  any  exciting  ritual 
attached,  without  any  reasonable  dilution  with  magic 
or  mystery.  The  Roman  missionaries  in  Africa  know 
all  about  that.  But  James  was  prepared  simply  to 


14  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

sit  down  in  his  black  coat  while  a  sort  of  reverent 
indaba  of  savages  drank  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
and  forthwith  proceeded  to  put  it  into  practice.  Ritual 
of  any  kind  was  abhorrent  to  him.  Personality,  ex- 
ample .  .  .  those  were  the  things  that  counted,  said 
James.  Personality!  Compare  the  force  of  his  per- 
sonality with  that  of  Godovius.  Think  of  him  dashing 
out  milk  and  water  ethics  to  the  Masai,  and  then  of 
Godovius  with  his  deep  knowledge  of  the  origins  of 
religion  in  man,  with  his  own  crazy  enthusiasms  added 
to  a  cult  the  most  universal  and  savagely  potent  of  any 
that  has  ever  shaken  humanity.  I  wish  that  James 
were  not  such  a  pathetic  figure.  I  can't  help  seeing  his 
pale  face  with  Eva  Burwarton's  eyes.  It's  the  very 
devil.  .  .  . 

in 

And  so  to  Africa.  In  the  ordinary  way  Eva  would 
not  have  gone  with  him ;  but  it  so  happened  that  only 
a  month  before  he  was  due  to  sail  the  old  general 
shopkeeper  died,  and  everybody  seemed  to  think  that 
it  would  not  be  the  right  thing  to  leave  the  girl  be- 
hind. Far  Forest,  they  said,  was  not  the  place  for 
a  single  young  woman,  implying,  one  supposes,  that 
the  Luguru  mission  was.  And  it  would  be  so  much 
better  for  James,  they  said,  delicate,  and  a  favourite, 
with  all  the  makings  of  a  martyr  in  him,  to  have  some- 
one to  look  after  him;  presumably  to  put  on  a  clean 
collar  for  him  before  he  went  out  converting  the  heath- 
en. And  so  Eva  went.  She  just  went  because  she 
hadn't  anywhere  else  to  go.  There  wasn't  any  fine 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  15 

Apostolic  fervour  about  her  venture,  nor  even,  for  that 
matter,  any  great  sisterly  affection.  She  admitted  to 
me  that  she  had  never  understood  James.  If  she 
hadn't  been  convinced  that  it  was  her  duty  to  love 
him  I  think  she  would  really  have  disliked  him.  'But 
she  too,  for  all  her  fine  frank  naturalness,  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  school  of  the  old  man  Burwarton 
at  Far  Forest :  it  was  partly  that  which  made  her  so 
attractive — the  spectacle  of  an  almost  constant  conflict 
between  instinct  and  education  going  on  behind  those 
dark  eyes  of  hers.  But  then,  of  course,  no  one  in  the 
world  can  have  seen  that  in  the  same  way  as  Hector 
M'Crae.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  was  partly  the  reason  why 
he  fell  in  love  with  her. 

At  any  rate  brother  and  sister  embarked  at  London, 
steerage,  on  some  Castle  or  other,  for  Durban.  They 
went  by  the  Cape.  It  was  a  very  hot  passage,  and 
the  boat,  which  called  at  St.  Helena,  was  slow.  She 
didn't  really  enjoy  the  voyage.  In  the  steerage  there 
were  a  lot  of  low-class  Jews  going  out  to  Johannes- 
burg. Even  then  she  disliked  Jews.  Besides  these 
there  were  a  number  of  young  domestic  servants  trav- 
elling in  charge  of  a  sort  of  matron,  an  elderly  woman 
who  was  paid  for  the  work  by  the  society  which  ar- 
ranged the  assisted  passages.  Eva  rather  liked  her; 
for  she  was  kind  and  excessively  motherly.  What  is 
more,  she  took  her  work  seriously.  "Some  of  these 
young  persons  are  so  simple,"  she  said.  "And  the 
fellers  .  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  else  to  do 
on  board."  A  human  and  charitable  way  of  looking 
at  the  problem  to  which  she  owed  her  office.  It  was 


16  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

she,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  who  relieved  Eva  of  the  at- 
tentions of  the  third  engineer,  who  habitually  sought 
diversions  in  the  steerage.  They  were  passing  through 
the  oily  seas  about  the  Equator.  The  nights  were 
languid,  and  Jupiter  shed  a  track  over  the  smooth 
waves  almost  like  that  of  the  moon.  The  third  engi- 
neer was  rather  nice,  she  said,  at  first.  His  uniform. 
Until  one  night  .  .  .  but  the  Emigrants'  Matron  had 
put  him  in  his  place.  "Your  brother  should  be  look- 
ing after  you  by  rights,"  she  said.  "But  then,  what 
does  he  know  about  that  sort  of  thing?"  On  Sundays 
glimpses  of  heaven,  as  typified  by  the  First  Saloon, 
were  vouchsafed  to  them.  Indeed,  James,  who  was 
the  only  parson  aboard,  had  taken  the  service  and 
even  preached  a  short  sermon.  He  was  rather  flattered 
by  the  politeness  of  the  First-Class  people,  who  took 
it  all  in  with  innocence  and  serenity.  "They  were 
nice  to  us,"  said  Eva,  "because  they  wanted  to  assure 
their  own  souls  that  they  weren't  mean  in  despising 
us.  I  knew.  .  .  ." 

And  from  a  stuffy  coasting  steamer  that  paused 
as  it  were  for  breath  at  every  possible  inlet  from  Chindi 
to  Dar-es-Salaam  they  were  thrust  panting  into  Africa, 
into  the  sudden,  harsh  glories  of  the  tropics,  into  that 
"vast,  mysterious  land."  Mysterious  .  .  .  that  was 
the  adjective  which  people  always  used  in  talking  about 
Africa  ...  I  beg  their  pardon  .  .  .  the  Dark  Con- 
tinent— and  to  my  mind  no  word  in  the  language  could 
be  less  appropriate.  There  is  nothing  really  mysteri- 
ous about  Africa.  Mystery  is  a  thing  of  man's  imag- 
ining, and  springs,  if  you  will,  from  an  air  which  gen- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  17 

erations  of  dead  men  have  breathed,  emanates  from 
the  crumbled  bricks  with  which  they  have  builded, 
from  the  memory  of  the  loves  and  aspirations  of  an 
immemorial  past.  But  this  land  has  no  past :  no  high 
intelligence  has  made  the  air  subtly  alive  with  the 
vibrations  of  its  dreams.  And  another  thing  which 
the  word  mysterious  implies  is  the  element  of  shock 
or  surprise,  while  in  Africa  there  is  nothing  more 
rare.  From  the  Zambesi  to  the  Nile  a  vast  plateau, 
rarely  broken,  spreads;  and  on  its  desolation  the  same 
life  springs,  the  same  wastes  of  thorny  scrub,  the  same 
river  belts  of  perennial  forest,  the  same  herds  of 
beasts,  the  same  herds  of  men. 

Into  the  centre  of  this  vast  monotony  the  Burwar- 
tons  were  plunged.  By  rail,  for  a  hundred  miles  or 
so  up  the  Central  Railway  to  the  point  where  the  mis- 
sionary whom  they  were  relieving  met  them.  He  might 
have  waited  at  Luguru  to  see  them  into  the  house,  they 
thought.  But  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  He 
said  so:  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  it.  Eva  said 
from  the  first:  "That  man's  hiding  something."  But 
James  wouldn't  have  it.  They  had  talked  a  little  about 
the  work.  A  stubborn  field  apparently  .  .  .  and  yet 
such  possibilities!  So  many  dark  souls  to  be  enlight- 
ened, and  almost  virgin  soil.  James  thrilled.  He 
was  anxious  to  get  to  work.  The  things  which  Bui- 
lace,  the  retiring  minister,  had  told  him  had  set  fire 
to  his  imagination,  so  that  for  days  on  end  he  moved 
about  in  a  state  of  rapt  emotion. 

But  Eva  wasn't  going  to  leave  it  at  the  stage  of 
vague  enthusiasms.  She  wanted  to  know  about  the 


i8  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

house.  Mr.  Bullace  had  been  unmarried :  his  house- 
work had  been  done  by  two  native  boys  of  the  Walu- 
guru  tribe.  Their  names  were  Hamisi  and  Onyango. 
Oh  yes,  good  boys  both  of  them.  Excellent  boys, 
and  Christians,  of  course.  He  had  to  confess  that 
the  house  wasn't  up  to  much.  The  garden?  .  .  .  He 
feared  the  garden  had  been  rather  neglected.  But 
then  the  work  .  .  .  He  hoped,  hoped  with  rather  an 
exaggerated  zeal,  she  thought,  that  they  would  be 
happy.  It  would  be  strange  for  a  white  woman  to 
live  at  Luguru :  such  a  thing  had  never  happened  be- 
fore. 

She  wanted  to  know  about  neighbours.  Well,  strict- 
ly speaking,  there  weren't  any  there,  except  Herr  Go- 
dovius,  a  big  owner  of  plantations.  He  didn't  seem 
to  want  to  talk  about  Godovius;  which  was  quite  the 
worst  thing  he  could  have  done,  for  it  made  her  sus- 
picious. For  James.  That  was  always  the  funny  part 
of  her:  she  wasn't  really  fond  of  James  (she 
admitted  as  much),  and  yet  she  always  regarded 
herself  in  some  sort  as  his  protector,  and  was 
quick  to  scent  any  hostility  towards  him  in  others  or 
even  by  any  threat  to  his  peace  of  mind.  She  re- 
garded him  more  or  less  as  a  child.  And  so  he  was, 
after  all.  .  .  . 

Now  she  didn't  give  poor,  shaky  Mr.  Bullace  any 
peace.  By  hedging  he  had  put  her  hot  on  the  scent; 
she  tackled  him  with  that  peculiar  childish  directness 
of  hers. 

"What's  the  matter  with  this  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  Godo- 
vius?" 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  19 

Mr.  Bullace  couldn't  or  wouldn't  tell  her.  "There's 
nothing  really  the  matter  with  him,"  he  said.  "In 
some  ways  you'll  find  him  ...  oh  ...  kind — ex- 
traordinarily kind.  I  don't  want  to  prejudice  you 
against  him." 

"But  that's  what  you  are  doing,  Mr.  Bullace,"  she 
said. 

"I  want  you  to  start  with  a  clean  sheet,  so  to  speak. 
I  want  you  to  be  happy  at  Luguru.  I  don't  see  why 
you  shouldn't,  I  don't  really." 

And  by  that  she  knew  that  he  did.  Indeed  I  pity 
little  Mr.  Bullace  under  Eva's  eyes. 

James  was  different,  very  different.  He  mopped 
up  all  that  Mr.  Bullace  could  tell  him  about  the  peo- 
ple: how  this  village  chief  was  a  reliable  man;  how 
another  was  suspected  of  backslidings ;  a  third,  re- 
grettably, a  thief.  James  took  shorthand  notes  in  a 
penny  exercise-book.  But  he  couldn't  help  noticing 
how  ill  and  haggard  Mr.  Bullace  looked. 

"The  work  has  told  on  you,"  he  said. 

Yes,  Mr.  Bullace  admitted,  the  work  had  told  on 
him.  "But  you"  he  said,  "will  not  be  so  lonely. 
Loneliness  counts  for  a  lot.  That  and  fever.  Have 
you  plenty  of  quinine?" 

"I  am  ready  to  face  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  James. 
"One  reckons  with  that  from  the  start."  He  even 
glowed  in  anticipation.  He  would  have  blessed  mala- 
ria as  a  means  to  salvation.  Eva,  listening  to  his 
enthusiasms,  and  what  she  took  to  be  Mr.  Bullace's 
gently  evasive  replies,  smiled  to  herself.  She  won- 
dered where  she  came  in. 


CHAPTER  II 


morning  Mr.  Bullace  left  them.  There 
wasn't  really  anything  suspicious  about  his 
haste ;  for  if  he  hadn't  gone  down  the  line  that  day  he 
would  have  had  to  forfeit  a  month  or  more  of  his 
leave  by  missing  the  boat.  From  the  railway  the  two 
Burwartons  set  off  northward.  Luguru  was  distant 
six  days'  safari:  in  other  words,  between  seventy  and 
eighty  miles. 

Of  course  this  journey  was  very  wonderful  for 
Eva.  I  suppose  there  is  no  existence  more  delightful 
than  that  of  the  wanderer  in  Africa,  in  fair  weather, 
particularly  in  these  highlands,  where  the  nights  are 
always  cool,  and  the  grassy  plains  all  golden  in  the 
early  morning  when  most  of  the  journeying  is  done. 
To  these  dwellers  in  the  cloudy  Severn  valley  was 
given  a  new  intoxication  of  sunlight,  of  endless  smil- 
ing days.  And  the  evenings  were  as  wonderful  as 
the  earlier  hours;  for  then  the  land  sighed,  as  with 
relief  from  a  surfeit  of  happiness;  when  night  un- 
folded a  sky  of  unusual  richness  decked  with  strange 
lights  more  brilliant  than  the  misty  starshine  of  home. 
James  Burwarton  too  was  sensitive  to  the  magnifi- 
cence of  these.  From  a  friend  at  "college"  he  had 
picked  up  a  few  of  the  names  of  Northern  constel- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  21 

lations;  but  many  of  these  stars  troubled  him  by  their 
strangeness.  The  brother  and  sister  sat  together  alone 
in  the  dark  watching  the  sky.  Alone  in  the  middle  of 
Africa.  James'  imagination  struggled  with  the  idea. 
"To  think,"  he  said,  "that  even  the  stars  are  differ- 
ent. One  might  be  in  another  world."  Adventure 
enough  for  the  most  exacting  of  devotees !  The  sight 
of  this  starry  beauty  filled  him  with  a  desire  to  mor- 
alise. With  Eva  it  was  quite  different.  To  her  their 
loveliness  and  strangeness  were  self-sufficient.  "I 
think,"  she  said,  "that  I  simply  moved  along  in  a  sort 
of  dream.  I  couldn't  pretend  to  take  it  all  in  then,  but 
now  I  seem  to  remember  every  step  of  it." 

That  was  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  girl  which 
I  quickly  discovered  :  she  had  an  almost  infallible  sense 
of  country — a  rare  thing  in  a  woman.  Thanks  to  this, 
I  have  now  almost  as  clear  a  conception  of  the  Luguru 
mission  and  its  surroundings  as  if  I  had  been  there 
myself.  The  lie  of  the  whole  land  was  implicit  in  her 
account  of  their  first  arrival  there. 

It  was  evening,  she  said — the  sixth  evening  of  their 
safari.  All  day  long  they  had  been  pushing  their 
way  through  moderately  dense  thorn  bush.  Awfully 
hot  work  it  was,  with  the  smell  of  an  orangey  sort 
of  herb  in  the  air:  like  oranges  mixed  with  another 
scent  .  .  .  mint,  or  something  of  that  kind.  She  was 
rather  tired;  for  she  had  been  walking  most  of  the 
day,  preferring  that  sort  of  fatigue  to  the  sea-sick- 
ness of  riding  in  a  machila.  All  along  the  road  the 
tsetses  had  been  flicking  at  them  as  if  they  must  bite 
or  die,  and  Eva's  ankles  were  swollen  with  tick  bites. 


22  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

And  then  suddenly,  just  as  the  evening  grew  calm 
and  beautiful  and  the  air  cool,  the  bush  began  to  thin 
a  little,  and  the  scent  of  that  funny  stuff  (she  said) 
began  to  thin  too.  They  were  approaching  a  well- 
defined  ridge,  and  when  they  reached  the  crest  they 
saw  that  the  bush  on  the  farther  slope  was  far  thin- 
ner and  the  trees  bigger.  "Just  like  an  English  park," 
she  said.  And  that  is  what  they  call  Park  Steppe  in 
German  East.  The  slope  in  front  of  them  shelved  into 
a  semicircle  of  low  hills  beyond  which  an  unbroken 
line  of  mountain  stretched,  very  solemn  and  placid  in 
the  evening  air.  A  wide  basin  was  this  country  of 
the  Waluguru,  clogged  in  its  deepest  concavity  with 
dense  blue  forest  and  the  brighter  green  of  the  M'ssente 
Swamp.  Towards  the  ambient  foothills,  lips  of  the 
basin,  the  Park  Steppe  rose  on  either  hand :  and  these 
lower  hills  were  bare  except  for  dark  streaks  of  forest 
which  marked  the  courses  of  winter  torrents.  On  the 
western  rim,  part  of  which  was  already  in  shade,  a 
white  building  shone  in  the  middle  of  the  bare  hill- 
side. That  was  the  mission. 

I  have  written  that  all  these  lesser  hills  were  bare 
but  one.  And  this  one,  which  was  the  highest  of 
them  all,  overhung  the  sources  from  which  the  M'ssen- 
te river  issued  into  the  dark  forest.  It  seemed,  indeed, 
as  if  some  special  virtue  in  the  moisture  of  the  river's, 
springs  had  tempted  the  forest,  whose  vast  body  lay 
dark  in  the  valley's  bottom,  to  swarm  up  its  slopes  and 
to  clutch  at  the  hill's  conical  peak.  But  towards  the 
top  the  trees  abruptly  ended,  and  the  volcanic  form  of 
the  summit,  the  commonest  of  hill  shapes  in  East 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  23 

Africa,  showed  pale  against  the  mountains  behind.  On 
either  side  of  this  central  peak  the  slopes  of  the  hills 
were  cultivated  and  planted  with  rubber  and  coffee. 
The  sight  of  tilled  earth  and  the  homely  green  of  the 
rubber-trees  gave  an  aspect  of  cheerfulness  and  civili- 
sation to  the  valley  which  helped  one  to  forget  the 
forest  and  swamps  beneath.  After  all,  it  seemed  as  if 
life  at  Luguru  need  not  be  as  strange  as  they  had 
imagined.  That  night  they  encamped  on  the  edge  of 
the  basin.  Another  evening  of  brilliant  starshine,  un- 
til a  little  later  a  crescent  moon  rose  and  hung  above 
the  peak  of  that  wooded  hill. 

Next  day,  though  it  was  much  farther  than  they 
had  imagined,  they  reached  the  mission.  The  place 
was  sufficiently  well  ordered,  and  reasonably  clean. 
Although  in  the  distance  the  hill-side  had  seemed  to 
be  almost  bare,  they  found  that  their  home  was  set 
about  with  a  number  of  scattered  trees,  a  kind  of 
croton,  with  slender  twisted  trunks  and  expanded 
crowns.  By  daylight  these  trees  carried  their  green 
heads  so  high  in  the  burning  air  that  they  gave  no 
shade,  and  one  was  not  conscious  of  them;  but  when 
the  evening  descended  on  Luguru  and  their  branches 
stirred  in  a  faint  zodiacal  glow  they  were  most  lovely 
creatures.  Every  evening,  at  sundown,  they  would 
awake  to  gracious  life.  Eva  Burwarton  grew  to 
love  them.  All  the  open  ground  about  their  little 
compound  was  scattered  with  their  fruit,  which  re- 
sembled that  of  the  walnut. 

By  the  side  of  the  mission  house  lay  the  garden  of 
which  Bullace  had  spoken,  hedged  with  a  boma  of 


24  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

sisal  aloes,  many  of  which  had  flowered  so  that  their 
tall  poles  rose  up  like  spears.  Within  the  boma  were 
untidy  banana-trees  with  their  ragged  leaves ;  a  corner 
of  guava  and  citrus;  beds  of  French  beans  and  sweet 
potatoes  over  which  a  gourd  had  straggled.  It  was 
a  little  garden,  and  Eva  was  sure  that  soon  she  could 
reduce  it  to  order.  The  prospect  of  doing  so  pleased 
her.  Such  labour  would  be  very  sweet  in  the  blue 
evening  when  the  croton-trees  awakened.  It  was  won- 
derful, in  a  way,  to  be  thrown  upon  one's  own  re- 
sources for  every  comfort;  and  particularly  in  a  coun- 
try where  nature  did  half  the  work,  where  the  ancient 
soil  was  rich  with  the  death  of  centuries,  only  waiting 
to  give  forth  new  life.  Eva  decided  that  in  a  little 
while  she  would  have  a  treasure  of  a  garden.  But 
there  were  no  flowers :  that  was  the  strange  thing  about 
it — there  were  no  flowers. 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  most  distant  from  the 
house  and  under  the  spears  of  sisal  stood  a  substantial 
banda,  or  hut,  built  of  grass  closely  thatched.  A  thin 
partition  divided  this  building  into  two  chambers.  In 
the  outer  a  number  of  gardening  tools  were  stored. 
The  inner  and  smaller  of  the  two  was  dark,  the 
doorway  of  the  partition  being  blocked  with  loose 
boards,  and  Eva,  looking  through  the  cracks  between 
the  boards,  discovered  that  it  was  empty  except  for 
an  immense  pile  of  empty  whisky  bottles  in  one  cor- 
ner. Her  thoughts  returned  quickly  to  her  memory 
of  Mr.  Bullace's  face,  to  his  hands  that  trembled  with 
nervousness.  She  wondered.  .  .  .  But  her  orderly 
mind  soon  realised  that  this  inner  room  might  be  use- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  25 

ful  as  a  store  for  lumber,  and  that  the  outer,  when 
once  it  had  been  cleaned  and  swept,  would  make  her  a 
sort  of  summer-house  in  which  she  might  sit  and  read 
in  the  heat  of  the  day.  There,  she  decided,  she  would 
take  her  sewing.  The  banda  should  be  devoted  to  her 
as  the  little  arbour  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  at  Far 
Forest  had  been  her  chief  playground,  the  home  of 
herself  and  her  dolls,  when  she  had  been  a  child. 
Living  there,  by  herself,  she  would  be  a  child  again. 
While  she  had  this  refuge  James  need  never  be  dis- 
turbed at  his  studies.  It  would  be  such  fun.  .  .  . 

Indeed  it  seemed  to  her  in  those  days  that  their 
life  at  Luguru  must  be  almost  idyllic,  that  they  would 
live  simply  and  at  peace,  unvexed  by  troubles  of  body 
or  mind.  I  think  she  was  naturally  hopeful,  and, 
if  you  like,  ignorant.  The  idea  of  tropical  violence 
didn't  enter  into  a  mind  fascinated  with  tropical 
beauty.  She  didn't  consider  the  menace  of  disease. 
She  didn't  realise  anything  of  the  savage  life  which 
struggled  as  it  were  to  the  surface  in  the  depths  of 
the  M'ssente  forests  and  the  great  swamp.  She  saw 
only  their  own  sunny  hill-side,  and  the  pleasant  plan- 
tations of  Herr  Godovius.  Even  when  I  came  to 
know  her  she  was  only  a  child.  .  .  . 

During  these  first  few  days  James  showed  himself 
eager  to  get  to  work.  As  for  the  house  and  the  gar- 
den and  the  little  slwwiba  behind  the  mission,  where 
coffee  and  mealies  were  growing,  he  simply  didn't 
seem  to  take  them  in.  James  was  all  for  souls — se- 
riously .  .  .  and  the  practical  details  of  life  fell  nat- 
urally to  the  lot  of  Eva.  Goodness  knows  what  would 


26    •          THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

have  happened  to  him  if  old  Mr.  Burwarton  had  not 
died  and  released  Eva  to  look  after  him.  I  suppose 
he  would  have  led  a  wild,  prophetic  sort  of  existence, 
depending  for  his  sustenance  on  locusts  and  wild  honey 
(there  were  plenty  of  both)  or  the  ministrations  of 
ravens  .  .  .  just  until  he  discovered  that  a  man  can't 
live  on  nothing.  In  a  way  it  was  a  misfortune  that 
his  physical  wants  were  so  completely  provided  for 
by  Eva's  care;  it  gave  him  a  chance  of  such  complete 
absorption  in  one  idea  as  can  be  good  for  no  man. 
In  the  end  it  gave  him  time  for  brooding  on  his  diffi- 
culties. Of  course,  for  all  his  fervour,  he  was  ex- 
actly the  wrong  sort  of  man  for  missionary  work ;  but, 
as  Eva  herself  admitted,  he  was  built  for  martyrdom. 
They  didn't  expect  in  those  days  how  literally  he  would 
get  it.  Win  it,  he  would  have  said. 


II 

It  was  not  until  their  first  Sunday,  one  of  the  great 
days,  as  James  said,  of  his  life,  that  they  met  Godo- 
vius.  He  came  to  the  mission  church.  .  .  .  Yes,  Go- 
dovius  came  to  church.  .  .  . 

A  rather  astonishing  introduction.  He  galloped  up 
on  a  little  Somali  mule  that  somehow  seemed  to  have 
got  the  better  of  fly.  A  Waluguru  boy  had  run  all 
the  way  by  his  side.  When  he  handed  over  the  mule 
to  the  boy,  he  stood  waiting  on  the  edge  of  the  kneel- 
ing assembly.  The  service  was  nearly  over;  but  he 
showed  the  least  tinge  of  impatience  at  being  kept 
waiting.  James  was  quite  unconscious  of  this.  At 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  27 

home  and  on  the  voyage  he  had  been  taught  a  very 
fair  smattering  of  mission  Swahili,  and  the  repeti- 
tion of  prayers  in  this  exotic  language  by  the  lips 
of  forty  or  fifty  converts  led  by  the  mission  boys, 
Hamisi  the  Luguru  and  Onyango,  a  stranger  from  the 
Wakamba  country  with  filed  teeth,  was  an  incense  to 
him.  This  oasis  of  prayer  in  the  heart  of  an  infidel 
desert  .  .  . 

But  Eva,  from  the  moment  Godovius  had  ridden 
up,  was  conscious  of  his  physical  presence,  and  even 
more,  in  an  indefinite  way,  of  his  spiritual  immanence. 
He  was,  she  reflected,  their  only  neighbour;  and  it 
struck  her  that  James'  disregard  of  him,  a  white  man, 
was  a  shade  impolite.  Besides,  she  had  only  just 
realised  that  the  Luguru  Christian,  next  to  whom  she 
knelt,  exhaled  a  distinct  and  highly  unpleasant  odour. 
Of  course  that  wasn't  his  fault,  poor  thing  .  .  .  but 
still  .  .  .  She  noticed,  too,  that  James  was  the  only 
person  in  all  that  assembly  who  didn't  realise  Godo- 
vius's  presence.  The  natives  on  either  side  of  her  gave 
a  little  movement  which  might  have  meant  anything 
when  he  approached.  She  even  heard  one  of  them 
murmur  a  word  .  .  .  something  like  Saccharine  .  .  . 
and  wondered  what  it  meant.  Although  they  still 
muttered  the  formulae  which  they  had  learned,  Eva 
was  certain  that  they  were  really  thinking  a  great  deal 
more  of  the  dark  man  who  stood  waiting  behind  them. 
It  was  a  funny  impression;  and  the  intuition  van- 
ished as  quickly  as  it  had  come  to  her ;  for  James  fin- 
ished his  service,  the  crowd  drifted  away,  and  Godo- 
vius himself  came  forward  with  an  altogether  charm- 


28  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ing  smile.  He  spoke  English  well :  with  more  purity, 
indeed,  than  either  of  them.  He  said :  "Mr.  Burwar- 
ton?  ...  I  was  told  your  name  by  the  good  Bullace. 
I  am  your  neighbour  .  .  .  Godovius.  We  must  be 
friends." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  James  grasped  it  and  shook 
it  fervently. 

He  bowed  to  Eva.     "Your  wife?"  he  said. 

"My  sister." 

"How  foolish  of  me.  ...  I  should  have  known." 

This  is  how  Eva  saw  him:  Tall,  certainly  taller 
than  James,  who  himself  was  above  middle  height. 
And  dark  .  .  .  perhaps  that  was  only  to  be  expected 
from  the  sun  of  those  parts;  but  she  had  always  imag- 
ined that  Germans  were  fair.  In  no  way  did  he  answer 
to  her  ideas  of  Germanity.  He  was  exceedingly  po- 
lite :  after  all,  she  supposed  most  foreigners  were  that : 
but  to  the  exotic  grace  which  was  the  traditional  birth- 
right of  Continentals  there  was  here  added  strength. 
She  had  never  met  a  man  who  gave  such  an  impres- 
sion of  smooth  capability.  "He  looked  clever,"  she 
said.  It  doesn't  seem  ever  to  have  struck  her  that 
Godovius  was  a  Jew,  even  though  she  quickly  decided 
that  he  wasn't  typically  German.  Indefinitely  she  had 
been  prejudiced  against  him;  but  now  that  she  saw 
him  she  liked  him.  "You  couldn't  help  liking  him. 
He  was  really  very  handsome."  The  only  thing  about 
which  she  wasn't  quite  sure  was  his  eyes.  They  were 
dark  .  .  .  very  dark:  "Not  the  soft  sort  of  dark," 
she  said. 

They  all  moved  towards  the  mission  house,  Eva 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  29 

first,  Godovius  and  her  brother  walking  side  by  side. 
They  were  already  talking  of  the  Waluguru. 

"You  won't  find  them  easy,"  Godovius  said.  "I 
think  I  may  safely  say  that  I  know  more  about  them 
than  anyone  else.  No  other  settler  has  a  shamba  in 
their  country.  And  it  isn't  a  big  country,  although 
they're  a  fairly  numerous  tribe.  Down  there" — he 
pointed  with  the  long  thong  of  hippo  hide  which  he 
carried  as  a  whip  to  the  dark  forest  beneath  them, 
bloomed  with  quivering  air — "down  there,  under  the 
leaves,  they  live  thickly.  The  life  in  that  forest  .  .  . 
human  .  .  .  sub-human  .  .  .  because  they  aren't  all 
like  men  .  .  .  the  apes :  and  then,  right  away  down  in 
the  scale,  the  great  pythons.  Oh  .  .  .  the  leeches  in 
the  pools.  Life  ...  all  seething  up  under  the  tree- 
tops,  with  different  degrees  of  aspirations,  ideals.  Life, 
like  a  great  flower  pushing  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  Isn't 
it?" 

James  said  yes,  it  was.  He  reined  back  Godovius 
to  the  business  in  hand :  his  business.  Why,  he  asked, 
were  the  Waluguru  difficult?  Why?  But  the  matter 
was  ethnological.  Mr.  Burwarton  was  a  student  of 
ethnology  ? 

James  wasn't. 

Godovius  was  quick  with  offers  of  help.  "It's  a 
habit  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  can  lend  you  books  if 
you  wish  them.  Perhaps  you  don't  read  German? 
Ah  ...  all  the  best  ethnology  is  German.  But  I 
have  some  English.  Frazer  .  .  .  The  Golden  Bough. 
No  doubt  you  have  read  that  ...  if  religion  inter- 
ests you." 


30  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

James  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  understand  what 
these  things  had  to  do  with  the  gospel  of  Christ. 
To  him  religion  was  such  a  simple  thing.  And  all 
the  time  Eva  was  listening,  not  because  she  under- 
stood what  Godovius  was  talking  about,  but  because 
she  was  conscious  of  the  suppressed  flame  in  him: 
just  because,  in  fact,  he  interested  her. 

He  came  back  to  the  Waluguru.  They  weren't,  he 
said,  a  pure  Bantu  stock  by  any  means.  There  were 
elements  of  a  very  different  kind.  Semitic.  Of  course 
there  was  any  amount  of  Arab  blood  among  the  coast- 
al Swahili;  but  the  case  of  the  Waluguru  was  rather 
peculiar:  the  way  in  which  they  were  isolated  by  the 
lie  of  the  land — the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  to  the 
north,  the  thick  bush  on  the  south.  They'd  developed 
more  or  less  on  irregular  lines.  Nobody  knew  how 
they'd  got  there.  Physically  they  were  very  attractive 
.  .  .  the  women  at  any  rate. 

But  none  of  these  things  would  necessarily  make 
them  "difficult,"  James  protested. 

Godovius  smiled.  "Well,  perhaps  not.  ...  At  any 
rate,"  he  said,  "you'll  find  my  people  interesting." 
He  called  them  my  people. 

Eva  noticed  that:  she  always  noticed  little  things, 
and  remembered  at  the  same  time  the  way  in  which 
the  Waluguru  congregation  had  responded  to  his  pres- 
ence in  the  middle  of  James's  prayers;  but  this  impres- 
sion was  soon  covered  by  her  appreciation  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  talking  all  the  time  to  her  as  much  as  to 
James:  and  that  was  for  her  an  unusual  sensation, 
for  she  had  been  accustomed  for  long  enough  to  tak- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  31 

ing  a  back  seat  when  James  was  present.  This  atti- 
tude of  Godovius  subtly  flattered  her,  and  she  began 
to  feel,  rather  guiltily,  that  she  had  allowed  a  first 
impression  to  influence  her  unfairly.  She  became  less 
awkward,  permitting  herself  to  realise  that  their  neigh- 
bour was  really  very  good-looking  in  a  dark,  sanguine, 
aggressively  physical  way.  She  noticed  his  teeth, 
which  were  white — very  white  and  regular  as  the 
teeth  of  an  animal  or  of  an  African  native:  and 
then,  suddenly,  once  again  she  noticed  his  eyes,  deep 
brown  and  very  lustrous.  He  was  looking  at  her 
carefully;  he  was  looking  at  her  all  over,  and  though 
she  wasn't  conscious  of  any  expression  in  them  which 
could  allow  her  to  guess  what  he  was  thinking,  she 
blushed.  It  annoyed  her  that  she  should  have  blushed, 
for  she  felt  the  wave  spreading  over  her  neck  and 
chest  and  knew  that  he  must  realise  that  she  was 
blushing  all  over.  "I  felt  as  if  I  weren't  properly 
clothed,"  she  said. 

Then  Godovius  smiled.  He  took  it  all  for  granted. 
He  spoke  to  her  just  as  if  James  had  not  been  there : 
as  if  they  had  been  standing  alone  on  the  stoep  with 
nothing  but  the  silence  of  Africa  around  them.  He 
said  : 

"Do  you  realise  that  my  eyes  haven't  rested  on  a 
white  woman  for  more  than  five  years?" 

And  she  answered:  "I'm  sorry.  .  .  ."  Why  on 
earth  should  she  have  said  that  she  was  sorry? 

That  morning  he  spoke  no  more  to  her.  He  stood 
on  the  stoep,  a  little  impatiently,  slapping  his  leggings 
with  his  kiboko,  and  answering  the  anxious  questions 


32  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

of  James  as  if  he  had  set  himself  a  task  and  meant  to 
go  through  with  it.  Eva,  watching  them,  realised 
that  if  she  were  sorry,  as  she  had  said,  for  Godovius, 
she  had  much  more  reason  to  be  sorry  for  James. 
The  physical  contrast  between  the  two  men  was  borne 
in  on  her  so  strangely.  And  a  little  later,  feeling 
that  she  wasn't  really  wanted,  she  slipped  into  the 
house. 


in 

James  and  she  discussed  this  surprising  visit  over 
their  evening  meal.  They  were  sitting,  as  usual,  upon 
the  wide  stoep  which  overlooked  the  valley  and  the 
forest  and  all  that  cavernous  vista  which  the  planta- 
tions of  Godovius  and  the  conical  hill  named  Kilima 
ja  Mweze  dominated.  James  was  rather  tired  with 
his  day's  work — the  enthusiasm  of  the  Sabbath  always 
consumed  him  and  left  him  weak  and  mildly  excited — 
and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  sweet  relief  that  they 
watched  the  croton-trees  stirring  in  an  air  that  was 
no  longer  eaten  out  with  light.  They  ate  sparingly 
of  a  paw-paw  which  Hamisi  had  cut  from  the  clusters 
in  the  garden,  and  Eva  had  picked  a  rough  green 
lemon  from  one  of  her  own  trees  that  stood  decked 
with  such  pale  lamps  of  fruit  in  the  evening  light. 
Then  they  had  coffee  made  from  the  berries  which 
Mr.  Bullace  had  left  behind :  Mocha  coffee  grown  in 
the  plantations  of  Godovius. 

James  sipped  his  coffee  and  then  said  suddenly : 

"Do  you  like  him?" 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  33 

Eva  knew  whom  he  meant  perfectly  well,  but  found 
herself  asking:  "Who?" 

"Mr.  Godovius." 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  he 
is  a  good  man?" 

"Yes  ...  I  think  he  is  a  good  man.  Here  we  can- 
not judge  by  the  same  standards  as  at  home.  Set- 
tlers live  very  isolated  lives  .  .  .  far  away  from  any 
Christian  influences,  and  I  think  that  very  often  they 
don't  look  with  favour  on  missionary  work.  I've 
been  told  so.  ...  One  is  fortunate  to  find  them  even 
— how  can  I  put  it? — neutral.  He  that  is  not  against 
us  is  for  us.  He  was  kind,  extremely  kind.  And 
then  we  have  Mr.  Bullace's  word." 

"Do  you  trust  Mr.  Bullace's  word?"  she  said. 

"If  we  can't  trust  our  own  people  .  .  ."  he  began; 
but  she  was  sorry  for  what  she  had  said,  and  hastened 
to  tell  him  that  she  didn't  mean  it,  and  that  she  really 
thought  Godovius  had  been  quite  kind  and  neighbour- 
ly to  have  visited  them  so  soon,  and  that,  no  doubt, 
he  knew  more  about  the  Waluguru  than  anyone  else 
and  might  be  a  great  help  to  them. 

He  was  only  too  happy  to  agree  with  her.  "When 
you  left  us,"  he  said,  "he  offered  to  help  you  with 
the  garden,  to  explain  to  you  all  the  things  of  which 
you  probably  wouldn't  know  the  uses.  Oh,  he  was 
most  kind.  And  why  did  you  run  away  from  us  ?" 

She  could  not  tell  him  the  real  reason,  principally 
because  she  did  not  know.  But  that  was  always  the 
peculiar  thing  about  her  relation  with  Godovius :  from 
the  first  an  amazing  mixture  of  repulsion  and  .  .  . 


34  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

something  else  to  which  she  found  it  impossible  to 
give  a  name. 

That  night  when  she  had  gone  to  bed,  leaving 
James  a  lonely  figure  in  the  pale  circle  of  light  which 
his  reading-lamp  reclaimed  from  the  enveloping  dark- 
ness, she  found  herself  curiously  restless  and  dis- 
turbed. It  was  perhaps  in  part  that  she  was  still 
unused  to  the  peculiar  character  of  the  African  night, 
that  tingling  darkness  in  which  so  much  minute  life 
stirs  in  the  booming  and  whiffling  of  uncounted  wings, 
in  the  restless  movements  of  so  many  awakening  ten- 
drils and  leaves.  This  was  a  darkness  in  which  there 
was  no  peace.  But  it  was  not  only  that.  Godovius 
troubled  her.  The  picture  of  him  which  abode  with 
her  that  night  was  so  different  from  that  of  reassur- 
ance in  which  he  had  left  them.  Now  she  could  only 
be  conscious  of  his  sinister  side;  and  the  impression 
assailed  her  with  such  an  overwhelming  force  that  she 
wondered  how  in  the  world  she  could  have  been  led 
into  such  a  feeble  acquiescence  with  James,  who 
thought  evil  of  no  man,  on  the  subject  of  their  neigh- 
bour. For  now,  if  she  confessed  the  truth  to  herself, 
she  was  frightened  of  Godovius.  She  was  convinced, 
too,  that  Mr.  Bullace  had  lied  to  them.  She  conceived 
it  her  duty  to  tell  James  so.  And  thus,  half  sleeping 
or  half  awake,  she  found  herself  in  the  passage  of 
the  bungalow  at  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  she 
had  left  her  brother  reading.  He  was  not  there.  The 
vacant  room  lay  steeped  in  moonlight  of  an  amazing 
brilliance;  she  could  read  the  sermon  of  Spurgeon 
which  lay  open  on  the  table.  It  took  her  a  few  sec- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  35 

ends  to  realise  that  the  impulse  which  had  forced  her 
to  set  out  upon  this  errand  of  disillusionment  had 
come  to  her  in  sleep,  flying  into  her  consciousness 
like  a  dark  moth  out  of  the  restless  night:  but  for  all 
that  she  could  not  at  once  persuade  herself  that  she 
had  been  foolish,  not  indeed  until  she  realised  that 
her  feet  were  cold  upon  the  floor  and  that  she  had 
better  beware  of  snakes  and  jiggers  and  other  terrors 
of  the  earth.  If  she  had  been  wearing  slippers  she 
would  probably  have  wakened  James.  As  it  was,  de- 
fenceless and  bewildered,  she  moved  out  of  the  cold 
moonlight  back  to  her  room,  where  she  fell  into  an 
uneasy  sleep.  For  now,  more  than  ever,  she  was  con- 
scious of  the  night's  noises  and  a  little  later  of  one 
noise  which  resembled  the  fluttered  beating  of  her  own 
heart  as  she  listened :  the  monotonous  pulsations,  some- 
where down  in  the  white  mist  of  the  forest,  of  an 
African  drum. 


CHAPTER  III 


day  when  she  woke  she  had  forgotten  all 
about  her  questionings.  It  was  one  of  the  peer- 
less mornings  of  that  hill  country  in  which  the  very 
air,  faintly  chilled  by  night,  possesses  a  golden  qual- 
ity, which  gives  it  the  effect  of  sunny  autumn  days  in 
Europe.  Only  once  did  she  remember  the  shadow 
of  her  premonitions,  and  that  was  when  she  came  sing- 
ing into  the  room  which  she  had  last  seen  in  the  moon- 
light and  found  upon  the  table  the  book  of  Spurgeon's 
sermons  open  at  the  same  page.  But  in  this  new 
and  delightful  atmosphere  Eva  could  afford  to  laugh 
at  her  fancies.  There  were  so  many  pleasant  things 
to  be  done,  and  as  the  sun  rose  that  vast,  smiling 
country  unfolded  around  her  with  a  suggestion  of  spa- 
ciousness and  warmth  and  leisure.  A  land  of  infinite 
promise  in  which  the  very  simplicity  of  life's  demands 
should  make  one  immune  from  the  menace  of  discon- 
tent: where,  for  a  little  labour,  the  rich  soil  should 
give  great  recompense.  Indeed  it  seemed  to  her  that 
in  this  place  she  might  be  very  happy,  for  she  asked 
very  little  of  life. 

Her  first  concern  was  Mr.  Bullace's  banda,  and  the 
tangled  garden  which  seemed  as  though  it  had  been 
long  deserted  and  overgrown,  although  it  had  only 

36 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  37 

been  cumbered  with  the  fierce  growth  of  one  season's 
rains.  Here,  in  the  golden  morning,  she  would  get 
to  work  with  the  two  boys,  Hamisi  and  Onyango, 
watching  their  happy,  leisurely  manner  of  husbandry. 
They  worked  until  their  black  limbs  were  stained  with 
warm  red  earth,  and  sometimes  while  they  were  toil- 
ing they  would  sing  to  each  other  strange  antiphonal 
airs  which  made  their  labour  seem  like  some  delightful 
game  of  childhood.  It  was  good  to  watch  them  at 
work,  for  they  seemed  so  happy  and  human  and  un- 
vexed  by  any  of  the  preoccupations  of  the  civilised 
man.  Indeed  it  was  very  difficult  to  realise  that  they 
were  really  savages,  and  it  came  as  a  shock  to  her  one 
day  when  she  saw  Hamisi,  the  M'kamba,  with  his 
splendid  torso  stripped,  and  noticed  upon  his  chest 
the  pattern  of  scars  which  the  medicine-man  had  carved 
upon  his  living  flesh  in  some  barbaric  rite.  She  grew 
fascinated  with  their  patience  and  good  nature  and 
their  splendid  white  teeth:  and  after  a  little  while 
she  was  no  longer  distressed  by  their  obvious  lazi- 
ness, for  in  the  placid  life  of  Luguru  there  was  no 
conceivable  need  for  hurry.  She  even  went  to  the 
trouble  of  borrowing  a  green  vocabulary  from  James' 
shelf  and  learning  a  few  words  of  everyday  Swahili 
which  she  would  use  with  intense  satisfaction.  There 
was  a  new  pleasure  and  a  sense  of  power  in  the  speak- 
ing of  a  strange  tongue  which  she  had  never  known 
before.  When  she  spoke  to  the  boys  in  Swahili  they 
smiled  at  her:  but  this  did  not  mean  that  they  were 
amused  at  her  flounder  ings :  they  were  of  a  people  that 
smiled  at  all  things,  even  at  suffering  and  at  death. 


38  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

One  morning  when  they  were  working  thus,  and 
she  sat  watching  them  in  the  door  of  Mr.  Bullace's 
banda,  she  was  startled  to  hear  them  stop  in  the  mid- 
dle of  one  of  their  songs.  With  a  sudden  sense  of 
some  new  presence  she  turned  round,  and  found  that 
Godovius  was  standing  near  her  in  the  path.  He  raised 
his  hat  to  her  and  smiled. 

"I  promised  to  come  and  help  you,"  he  said.  "And 
here  I  am  .  .  .  quite  at  your  service." 

It  was  strange  that  in  this  meeting  not  one  of  her 
old  doubts  returned.  His  arrival  had  been  too  sudden 
to  leave  her  time  to  think,  and  now,  instinctively, 
she  liked  him.  He  seemed  so  thoroughly  at  ease  him- 
self that  a  strained  attitude  on  her  part  was  impossible : 
and  in  a  very  little  time  he  convinced  her  that  he 
was  actually  as  good  as  his  word  and  that  his  knowl- 
edge would  be  of  great  use  to  her.  They  walked 
round  the  garden  together,  and  he  told  her  the  names 
of  many  things  which  she  had  not  known,  while  he 
instructed  her  in  the  cooking  of  many  strange  deli- 
cacies. 

"But  these  boys  of  yours  aren't  working  properly," 
he  said.  "You  can  get  a  great  deal  more  out  of 
them." 

"But  I  get  quite  enough,"  she  protested.  "In  fact, 
I  believe  I  rather  like  their  way  of  work.  It's  .  .  . 
well,  it's  restful." 

He  laughed  at  her:  "That's  all  very  well,  Miss 
Burwarton;  but  it's  bad  for  them  .  .  .  very  bad  for 
them.  There's  only  one  way  of  managing  natives. 
I  expect  you'd  think  it  a  very  brutal  way.  I'm  a 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  sg 

great  believer  in  the  kiboko.  You  can  only  get  at 
an  African  through  his  skin.  It's  a  very  thick  skin, 
you  know.  Nothing  is  so  terrible  as  physical  pain. 
But  then  .  .  .  nothing  is  so  quickly  forgotten.  On 
a  mind  of  this  kind  ...  if  you  like  to  call  it  a  mind 
.  .  .  the  impression  fades  very  quickly.  Fear  .  .  . 
that  is  the  only  way  in  which  we  small  communities 
of  Europeans  can  rule  these  black  millions.  By  fear. 
...  It  sounds  cruel :  but  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it  that  is  the  way  in  which  your  missionaries  teach 
them  Christian  morals,  by  frightening  them  with 
threats  of  what  will  happen  if  they  don't  embrace 
them.  I  know  that  the  good  Bullace  rather  special- 
ised in  hell.  But  what  is  an  indefinite  hell  compared 
with  definite  physical  pain?" 

She  didn't  fully  understand  what  he  was  driving  at. 
Life  had  never  accustomed  her  to  deal  with  abstrac- 
tions; but  he  saw  that  she  was  puzzled  and  perhaps 
a  little  frightened. 

So  he  stuck  the  kiboko,  which  he  had  been  flourish- 
ing as  he  spoke,  under  his  arm  and  smiled  at  her 
in  a  way  that  was  almost  boyish.  "You  don't  like 
what  I  say?"  he  said.  "Very  well  then.  I  will  show 
you.  We  will  apply  the  other  kind  of  persuasion. 
So  .  .  ." 

Still  smiling,  he  called  to  the  two  Africans.  "Kim- 
bia.  .  .  .  Run!"  he  cried.  They  stood  before  him, 
and  he  spoke  to  them  in  swift,  guttural  Swahili.  The 
foreigner  from  the  Wakamba  country  stared  at  him 
dully;  but  the  Waluguru  boy,  Hamisi,  cowered  be- 
neath his  words  as  though  a  storm  were  breaking  over 


40  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

him.  He  fell  to  his  knees,  covering  his  head  with  his 
hands  and  shaking  violently  in  every  muscle,  almost 
as  if  he  were  in  the  cold  stage  of  an  attack  of  fever. 
When  Godovius  stopped  speaking  the  boy  still  trem- 
bled. Onyango,  the  M'kamba,  turned  and  went  sul- 
lenly back  to  his  work,  Godovius  pushed  the  other 
with  his  foot.  "Get  up  ...  quenda,"  he  said.  Then 
Hamisi  staggered  on  to  his  legs.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
those  brown-veined  African  eyes  blotched  with  pig- 
ment, as  though  he  wanted  to  obliterate  some  hallu- 
cinated vision,  and  Eva  saw  that  they  weren't  like 
human  eyes  at  all,  but  like  those  of  an  animal  full  of 
terror.  Again  Godovius  told  him  to  go,  and  he  mur- 
mured, "N'dio  Sakharani,"  and  stumbled  away. 

Sakharani.  .  .  .  Eva  remembered  the  whisper 
which  had  spread  through  the  Waluguru  congrega- 
tion on  the  morning  when  Godovius  had  ridden  up  on 
his  little  Somali  mule.  She  was  startled  and  at  the 
same  time  instinctively  anxious  to  appear  self-pos- 
sessed. She  said: 

"Sakharani.  ...  Is  that  a  name  that  they  give 
you?" 

He  laughed.  "Why,  of  course.  They  are  funny 
people.  They  always  invent  names  for  us.  I  expect 
they  have  given  you  one  already.  They  are  gener- 
ally descriptive  names,  and  pretty  accurately  descrip- 
tive, too." 

"Then  what  does  'Sakharani'  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  "you  are  making  things  very 
awkward  for  me.  But  I  will  tell  you.  'Sakharani' 
means  'drunken.' " 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  41 

All  this  he  said  very  solemnly,  and  Eva,  taking  the 
matter  with  a  simple  seriousness,  looked  him  up  and 
down  with  her  big  eyes,  so  that  he  burst  out  laughing, 
slapping  his  leggings  in  that  most  familiar  gesture 
with  his  whip. 

"Then  you  are  shocked.  ...  Of  course  you  are 
shocked.  You  think  I  am  a  drunkard,  don't  you?" 

She  told  him  truthfully  that  he  didn't  look  like 
one;  for  the  skin  of  his  face  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  double  terai  hat  of  greyish  felt  was  wonderfully 
clear,  and  those  strange  eyes  of  his  were  clear  also: 
besides  this,  she  could  see  that  he  was  still  intrigued 
by  the  joke. 

"You  think  that  I  am  one  who  is  drunk  with  whisky 
like  your  reverend  friend  Mr.  Bullace.  No  .  .  . 
you're  mistaken.  You  English  people  have  only  one 
idea  of  being  drunk — with  your  whisky.  But  there 
are  other  ways.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be 
drunk  with  the  glory  of  power — was  not  Alexander 
drunk? — or  to  be  drunk  with  beauty  .  .  .  you  have 
no  music  ...  or  to  be  drunk,  divinely  drunk,  with 
love,  with  passion.  Ah  .  .  .  now  do  you  know  what 
'Sakharani'  means?" 

Rather  disconcerted  by  this  outburst,  for  she  had 
never  heard  anything  of  this  kind  in  Far  Forest,  she 
told  him  that  she  thought  she  knew  what  he  meant 

"But  you  don't,"  he  said.  "Of  course  you  don't 
What  can  an  Englishwoman  know  of  passion  ?  Non- 
sense! .  .  .  Of  course  you  don't."  And  then,  see- 
ing her  bewilderment,  his  manner  suddenly  changed. 
"Forgive  me  my  ...  my  fit  of  drunkenness,"  he 


42  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

said.  "It  is  much  better  that  you  should  be  as  you 
are.  You  are  beautifully  simple.  A  woman  of  your 
simplicity  is  capable  of  all.  Forgive  me.  .  .  ." 

And  with  this  he  left  her  feeling  almost  dazed  in 
the  sunny  garden,  in  the  fainting  heat  of  the  tropical 
midday  in  which  all  things  seem  to  be  asleep  or  in  a 
state  of  suspended  life.  When  he  had  gone  the  whole 
of  that  land  around  seemed  uncannily  still,  there  was 
no  sound  in  it  but  the  melancholy  note  of  hornbills 
calling  to  one  another  in  dry  recesses  of  the  thorn- 
bush,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  even  their  voices 
drooped  with  heat.  .  .  . 


II 

That  evening  a  Waluguru  boy  came  over  from 
Njumba  ja  Mweze  with  a  great  basket  of  strange 
flowers,  great  orchids  horned  and  blotched  with  sav- 
age colour.  When  she  took  them  out  of  the  basket 
and  placed  them  straggling  in  a  wide  bowl  upon  the 
table  in  their  living-room  she  was  almost  afraid  of 
them,  for  their  splendour  seemed  to  mock  the  mean- 
ness of  the  little  house  almost  as  if  the  forest  itself 
with  all  its  untamed  life  had  invaded  their  quietude, 
asserting  beyond  question  its  primeval,  passionate 
strength.  Before  she  had  finished  arranging  them 
James  came  into  the  room. 

"How  do  you  like  them?"  she  said. 

He  fingered  the  fleshy  petals  of  a  great  orange 
flower. 

"They  are  marvellous,"  he  said.     "All  this  hidden 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  43 

beauty  of  creation.  .  .  .  Where  did  you  get  them?" 
"I  didn't  get  them.     Mr.  Godovius  sent  them." 
"It  was  kind  of  him  to  think  of  us,"  he  said;  but 
his   face   fell,  and   she  knew  that  he  was  suddenly 
questioning  the  propriety  of  the  gift,  suspecting  in 
spite  of  his  own  words  that  they  had  been  sent  to 
her  and  yet  ashamed  of  his  suspicions.     She  knew 
James  so  well. 

But  she  did  not  show  him  the  note  which  she  found 
in  the  bottom  of  the  basket.  It  was  written  in  a 
pointed,  foreign  hand,  with  many  flourishes,  and  said : 
"You  have  forgiven  me?  For  you  they  should  have 
been  violets." 

All  that  evening  the  presence  of  these  flowers  wor- 
ried her.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  Godovius  himself 
were  in  the  room,  as  if  those  extravagant  blooms  were 
an  expression  of  his  sanguine,  sinister  personality: 
and  when  James,  who  was  tired  with  a  long  day  of 
tramping  in  the  heat,  had  gone  to  bed,  a  strange  im- 
pulse made  her  want  to  take  the  fleshy  flowers  and 
crush  their  petals  to  a  pulp.  She  hated  them. 

"If  I  were  to  crush  them,"  she  thought,  "they  would 
be  wet  and  nasty  and  bleed,  as  if  they  were  alive." 
And  so  she  left  them  where  they  were. 

But  he  sent  many  other  flowers,  and  several  times 
he  came  himself,  nearly  always  in  that  hour  of  the 
level  sunlight.  He  would  come  into  the  garden  and 
stand  over  her,  saying  little,  but  all  the  time  watch- 
ing her  from  beneath  his  grey  slouch  hat.  In  all 
these  days  he  never  returned  to  the  subject  of  the 
name  the  natives  had  given  him  or  allowed  himself 


44  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

to  be  led  into  such  another  outburst  of  passion.  In- 
stead of  this,  he  nearly  always  talked  to  her  of  herself, 
subtly,  and  with  a  very  winning  friendliness,  induc- 
ing her  to  do  the  same.  He  had  been  in  England  a 
good  deal,  it  appeared;  but  there  was  nothing  re- 
markable in  that,  since  he  had  been  everywhere.  And 
yet,  even  so,  they  had  little  in  common ;  for  the  Eng- 
land which  he  knew  was  nothing  more  than  the  West 
End  of  London,  with  which  he  assumed  an  impres- 
sive familiarity  and  which  she  did  not  know  at  all. 
It  did  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  him  that  there 
was  any  other  England,  and  he  listened  with  a  sort 
of  amused  tolerance  to  her  stories  of  Far  Forest  and 
those  Shropshire  days  now  so  incredibly  remote.  Of 
these  things  she  would  talk  happily  enough,  for  to 
speak  of  them  mitigated  without  her  knowledge  a 
home-sickness  to  which  she  would  not  have  confessed. 
The  remembrance  of  many  green  days  in  that  coun- 
try of  springing  rivers  had  the  power  of  soothing  her 
almost  as  gently  as  the  music  of  their  streams,  so 
that  speaking  of  her  love  of  them  she  would  forget 
for  a  moment  all  that  vast  basin  of  Luguru.  And 
then,  no  doubt,  that  look  of  tender  wistfulness  which 
I  myself  had  seen  would  steal  into  her  eyes,  giving 
them  an  aspect  peculiarly  soft  and  .  .  .  vernal :  there 
is  no  other  word.  It  was  not  strange  that  Godovius, 
caressing  her  ideal  innocence,  should  have  told  her 
that  her  voice  was  soft  when  she  spoke  of  her  home. 
And  this  frightened  her.  Why  should  he  have  no- 
ticed her  voice?  She  became,  with  an  alarming  sud- 
denness, stiff  and  awkward  and  unnatural:  which 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  45 

made  Godovius  smile,  for  he  saw  that  he  had  read 
her  very  thoroughly  and  that  the  workings  of  her 
mind  were  plain  to  him.  It  amused  him  to  see  the 
adorable  shyness  with  which  she  shut  the  opened  doors 
of  her  heart  and  flattered  him  that  he  should  have 
guessed  the  way  in  which  they  might  be  opened  with- 
out her  knowing  it.  She  was  scared ;  but  it  was  very 
certain  that  however  she  felt  towards  him,  and  how- 
ever she  might  have  been  repelled  by  sudden  glimpses 
of  his  strange  personality,  she  could  not  deny  that 
he  had  been  kind. 

One  day  it  happened  that  she  disclosed  to  him  that 
her  name  was  Eva.  "A  beautiful  name,"  he  said, 
"and  one  that  perfectly  suits  you." 

She  asked  him  "Why" :  and  in  reply  he  told  her, 
as  one  might  tell  a  child,  the  story  of  the  Meister- 
singers,  of  the  love  of  the  handsome  Walther  for  her 
namesake  in  the  opera,  and  of  the  noble  resignation 
of  Hans  Sachs. 

"You  are  like  the  music  of  Eva,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  at  him :  for  it  seemed  to  her  ridiculous 
that  music  of  any  kind  could  be  like  a  living  woman. 
Indeed  she  thought  him  rather  silly,  and  extravagant 
as  usual,  and  was  amazed  to  see  the  seriousness  with 
which  he  proceeded  to  explain  what  seemed  to  her  a 
very  ordinary  story. 

"One  day,"  he  said,  "you  will  come  to  my  house 
and  I  will  play  to  you  some  Wagner,  and  then  you 
will  see  for  yourself  that  I  am  right.  Of  course 
music  is  not  natural  to  the  English.  .  .  ." 

After  this  he  would  often  ask  her:     "When  are 


46  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

you  coming  to  see  me  ...  you  and  your  brother?" 
so  often  that  at  last  she  was  compelled  to  ask  James 
when  he  would  take  her. 


in 

But  for  all  that  she  did  not  visit  the  House  of  the 
Moon  for  many  weeks.  James  could  not  find  time 
to  go  there  with  her.  With  an  almost  desperate  en- 
thusiasm he  had  thrown  himself  into  the  task  of  Chris- 
tianising the  Waluguru.  He  could  not  treat  the  busi- 
ness in  a  measured,  leisurely  way.  Every  morning 
Eva  would  watch  him  setting  out  from  the  stoep  over 
the  scattered  park-land  which  sloped  to  the  forest  and 
the  great  swamp,  a  bizarre,  pathetic  figure,  threading 
his  way  between  the  flat-topped  acacias.  In  a  little 
while  the  thin  shapes  of  innumerable  trees  would  close 
around  him  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day  he  would 
be  lost  to  her,  for  he  always  carried  a  small  parcel  of 
food  and  a  water-bottle  with  him  into  the  forest. 
Just  about  the  time  of  their  sudden  sunset  he  would 
return,  in  the  hour  when  the  fine  noises  of  night  be- 
gin :  and  then  he  would  fling  himself  down,  tired  out, 
on  the  lounge-chair  in  their  little  room,  with  his  feet 
on  the  long  wooden  foot-rest  stained  with  the  inter- 
secting circles  of  Mr.  Bullace's  glasses.  When  he 
came  home  at  night  he  was  always  exhausted,  some- 
times too  tired  even  to  eat,  and  Eva,  who  felt  un- 
happy about  him,  would  try  to  persuade  him  to  take 
things  more  easily.  She  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that 
it  was  not  usual  for  Europeans  to  work  themselves 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  47 

to  death  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Equator:  she 
had  seen  for  herself  the  man's  stormy,  precarious 
childhood  and  knew  how  delicate  he  was.  When  he 
had  been  working  at  "college"  a  nervous  breakdown 
had  thrown  him  back  on  Far  Forest  for  four  months, 
and  she  felt  that  soon  something  of  the  same  kind 
must  happen  here.  But  it  was  useless  to  argue  with 
James.  She  realised  that  from  the  beginning.  In 
the  Burwarton  family  his  distinguished  vocation  had 
always  made  him  a  law  to  himself ;  her  part  in  his  ca- 
reer had  been  limited  to  respectful  admiration,  and  it 
was  impossible  that  their  change  of  surroundings 
should  alter  the  relation.  Whatever  she  might  say, 
James  believed  he  knew  best:  and  there  was  an  end 
of  the  matter. 

It  is  difficult  to  visualise  the  kind  of  life  which 
James  was  leading  amongst  his  Waluguru.  Enter- 
ing the  forest  by  one  of  those  tawny  paths  of  sand 
which  trickled  down  to  it  from  the  dry  bush,  he  must 
have  passed  into  the  still  outer  zone  of  their  retreat, 
moving  through  the  green  gloom  far  beneath  the 
crowns  of  those  enormous  trees  like  some  creature 
struggling  among  thickets  of  seaweed  in  the  depths 
of  the  sea.  In  these  profundities  no  sound  disturbed 
the  heavy  air:  the  trailing  tangles  of  liana  never 
stirred,  and  into  their  gloom  there  penetrated  none  of 
the  fragrance  and  light  and  colour  which  trembled 
in  an  ecstasy  of  sunlight  above  the  roofs  of  those 
green  mansions.  Not  easily  did  one  attain  to  the 
haunts  of  the  Waluguru.  Two  stinking  creeks  were 
to  be  crossed  by  the  trunks  of  forest  trees  which  had 


48  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

been  felled  by  fire — the  only  bridges  the  Waluguru 
know — and  next  a  reach  of  dazzling  river,  where  the 
forest  fell  away  and  sunlight  burst  through  with  the 
pride  of  a  conqueror,  flashing  back  from  the  smooth 
sheets  of  yellow  water.  Then  one  came  to  a  zone  in 
which  tree  trunks  had  been  felled  on  every  side,  where 
often  a  smouldering  fire  might  be  seen  in  the  heart 
of  a  doomed  but  living  tree:  and  in  the  spaces  be- 
tween the  Waluguru  had  planted  vast  groves  of  the 
plantains  on  which  they  live:  for  they  are  a  forest 
people,  and  the  maize  which  feeds  so  great  a  part  of 
Africa  will  not  flourish  in  the  dank  air  which  they 
breathe.  Between  the  groups  of  plantains  they  had 
dug  pits  in  that  black  soil  which  is  nothing  but  the 
mould  of  green  things  which  had  thriven  and  died  and 
rotted  in  the  same  gloom,  and  in  the  bottom  of  these 
pits  lies  the  black  water  of  the  M'ssente  Swamp,  breed- 
ing the  fever  of  which  many  of  them  die. 

Serpentine  paths  trodden  in  the  oozy  earth  by  the 
flocks  of  goats  which  the  Waluguru  tend  threaded 
these  groves:  and  by  following  one  of  them  James 
was  certain  to  arrive  at  a  little  clearing  in  the  forest 
and  a  group  of  huts  with  pointed  roofs  of  reeds. 
These  oases,  miserable,  and  sunless,  were  the  field  of 
his  labours.  In  them  he  would  find  a  number  of 
women  decked  in  rings  of  copper  wire  and  small  pot- 
bellied children  who  stared  with  open  mouths.  The 
men  he  would  seldom  see,  for  all  of  them  who  could 
stagger  beneath  a  load  were  toiling  as  slaves  in  the 
airy  plantations  of  Godovius,  wearing  for  the  sym- 
bol of  their  servitude  a  disk  of  zinc  on  which  a  nurn- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  49 

ber  and  the  brand  of  their  master,  the  crescent  moon, 
were  stamped.  On  the  whole,  I  imagine  that  theirs 
was  a  far  happier  existence  than  that  of  the  women 
who  languished  in  the  great  swamp.  They,  at  any 
rate,  might  sometimes  see  the  sun,  even  if  the  sun- 
light were  cruel.  Most  of  the  women  seemed  to  James 
to  be  very  old ;  but  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  guess 
at  their  real  age,  and  they  could  not  tell  him,  for 
lengths  of  years  is  not  a  thing  to  be  treasured  among 
the  Waluguru.  It  is  probable  that  none  of  them  were 
really  aged,  but  only  emaciated  by  labour  and  poor 
feeding  and  disease.  Nor  were  there  many  children. 
The  Waluguru  know  well  enough  that  it  is  a  tragedy 
to  be  born.  Most  of  the  small  creatures  which  he 
saw  lolling  their  great  heads  were  scabbed  with  yaws 
and  tragically  thin.  An  atmosphere  of  hopelessness 
descended  on  him  as  soon  as  he  set  foot  within  their 
clearings.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  these  sinister  re- 
cesses some  devil  had  been  at  work  trying  malignantly 
to  stamp  out  the  least  flicker  of  humanity  in  the  souls 
or  bodies  of  these  people,  and  beneath  this  intangible 
menace  he  was  powerless.  There  was  no  more  hope 
for  these  creatures  than  for  any  pale  weed  struggling 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  light  in  the  bottom  of  one  of 
their  black  pits.  Everywhere  the  swarming  green 
stole  from  them  the  life  of  the  air:  and  when  they 
still  struggled  miraculously  upward  a  winged  death, 
whining  in  the  dank  air,  must  sow  their  blood  with 
other  hungry  parasites.  It  was  all  hopeless  .  .  . 
hopeless.  It  would  have  been  better,  he  was  some- 
times tempted  to  think,  if  a  great  fire  should  consume 


50  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

all  this  damnable  green,  a  purging  fire  that  should 
sweeten  where  it  destroyed,  and  give  the  ashes  of  hu- 
manity a  chance  to  make  a  new  start.  But  even  if 
his  wish  had  not  been  impious,  he  knew  that  its  ful- 
filment was  impossible :  for  he  remembered  the  liv- 
ing trees  in  whose  heart  a  dull  fire  smouldered,  just 
as  the  fire  of  fever  smouldered  in  these  people's  blood. 

It  was  necessary  to  make  a  beginning :  and  so  James 
set  himself  to  learn  the  language,  Kiluguru;  and  this 
he  rejoiced  to  find  less  difficult  than  he  supposed,  for 
the  tongue  was  scattered  very  thickly  with  Arabic 
words,  more  thickly  even  than  the  coastal  Kiswahili. 
To  these  were  added  the  Bantu  inflective  prefixes  with 
which  he  was  already  fairly  familiar.  The  conscious- 
ness that  in  this  he  was  gradually  drawing  nearer  to 
these  people  cheered  him,  although  he  knew  that  even 
when  he  had  made  himself  master  of  their  speech  he 
must  find  himself  faced  with  the  merest  outposts  of 
the  enemy.  And  so  with  an  aching  heart  he  settled 
down  to  the  first  steps  of  a  most  exhausting  cam- 
paign. No  man  with  a  small  or  faltering  faith  could 
have  faced  it;  but  there  was  never  any  doubt  but  that 
James  was  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes,  and  mar- 
tyrs, are  made. 

All  day  he  moved  among  the  people  of  Godovius, 
and  little  by  little  he  began  to  think  that  he  was  get- 
ting nearer  to  them.  Their  squalor,  their  loathly 
diseases,  the  very  grotesqueness  with  which  their  faces 
were  modelled — things  which  in  the  beginning  had 
filled  him  with  bewilderment  rather  than  distaste — • 
became  so  familiar  that  he  thought  no  more  of  them. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  51 

They  were  so  near  to  the  Leasts  that  any  token  of 
humanity  smiled  suddenly  at  him  with  the  effect  of  a 
miracle.  He  was  even  surprised  into  finding  strange 
revelations  of  beauty  .  .  .  beauty  ...  no  less  .  .  . 
in  their  black  masks.  In  the  gloom  of  the  evening, 
when  the  sun  which  bathed  the  hills  in  amber  light 
could  no  longer  penetrate  the  thick  curtains  of  the 
forest,  when  the  thin  song  of  innumerable  mosquitoes 
thrilled  the  air  and  the  liquid  trilling  of  frogs  arose 
from  every  creek  and  cranny  of  the  swamp,  he  would 
leave  them  and  set  out  for  the  mission  with  a  sense 
of  exaltation  in  the  work  accomplished  and  horrors 
overpast.  The  mere  physical  relief  of  emerging  into 
the  open  air  of  the  thin  bush,  scattered  with  slades 
of  waving  grasses  in  which  herds  of  game  were  graz- 
ing, coloured  his  mood.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  would 
be  so  overwhelmed  with  their  poignant  contrast  that 
he  would  ask  himself  whether  after  all  it  wasn't  his 
duty  to  leave  the  mission  and  live  altogether  with  the 
Waluguru,  and  wonder  why  he,  any  more  than  they, 
should  be  entitled  to  the  luxury  of  light.  For  the  most 
part  he  was  too  richly  contented  to  consider  his  own 
fatigue :  but  once  or  twice,  in  the  midst  of  this  bland 
mood,  he  found  himself  arrested  and  thrown  back 
upon  despair  by  a  sudden  sound  which  mocked  him 
from  the  recesses  of  the  swamp  behind  him.  This 
was  the  sound  which  had  troubled  Eva  on  the  night 
which  she  had  visited  his  moonlit  study:  the  rhyth- 
mical beating  of  a  drum.  It  seemed  to  him  not  merely 
a  mysterious  symbol  of  some  darkness  to  which  he 
had  not  penetrated,  but  rather  malignant  and  chal- 


52  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

lenging.  He  realised  that  there  was  more  in  the  for- 
est than  he  had  bargained  for;  that  he  was  opposed 
to  powers  of  whose  existence  and  strength  he  was  ig- 
norant. An  imaginative  man,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
these  distant,  insistent  pulsations  were  like  the  beating 
heart  of  the  forest,  an  expression  of  its  immense  and 
savage  life.  When  he  heard  it  he  would  do  the  sim- 
ple thing  which  seemed  most  natural  to  him.  There, 
in  the  tawny  sand  of  the  bush  path,  he  would  kneel 
down  and  pray;  and  later,  comforted  in  some  myste- 
rious manner,  he  would  move  on  his  way. 


CHAPTER  IV 


f  I  AHERE  came  a  day  of  cruel,  intolerable  heat  All 
•*-  the  morning  Eva  lay  in  a  long  chair  within  the 
shade  of  the  banda  in  the  garden  under  the  sisal 
hedge.  There  was  no  sun,  but  the  light  which  beat 
down  from  the  white-hot  sky  seemed  somehow  less 
bearable  than  sunlight  Little  by  little  she  had  real- 
ised her  idea  of  turning  this  grass  hut  into  a  sanc- 
tuary for  herself,  and  though  the  thatching  of  the 
reeds  gave  her  less  protection  from  the  sky  than  the 
roof  of  the  house  would  have  done,  she  was  so  far  in 
love  with  this  privacy  that  she  preferred  to  lie  there. 
Its  shelter  defied  the  heavy  dews  which  settle  in  the 
night:  and  she  had  made  the  place  homely  with  a 
couple  of  chairs  and  a  table  on  which  her  work-bas- 
ket stood.  There  was  even  a  little  bookshelf  crammed 
with  the  paper  novels  which  Mr.  Bullace  had  left  be- 
hind him  and  others  which  Godovius  had  sent  down 
for  her  to  read.  But  the  day  was  far  too  hot  for 
reading:  the  mere  unconscious  strain  of  living  was 
enough.  That  morning  after  James  had  left  her  she 
had  begun  to  write  a  letter  in  pencil  to  her  aunt  at 
Pensax,  a  village  hidden  in  the  valleys  beyond  Far 
Forest,  and  when  she  laid  it  aside  she  had  fallen 
asleep  in  her  chair  and  dreamed  that  she  was  back 

53 


54  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

again  in  that  distant  March,  walking  through  mead- 
ows that  were  vinous  with  the  scent  of  cowslips.  It 
was  a  pleasant  day,  with  skies  of  a  cool  blue  and 
fleets  of  white  cloud  sailing  slowly  out  of  Wales,  a 
day  on  which  one  might  walk  through  the  green  ways 
of  the  forest  until  one  reached  Severn-side  above  the 
floating  bridge  at  Arley.  This  pleasant  dream  cooled 
her  fancy.  When  she  awoke  it  was  afternoon  and 
hotter  than  ever,  and  the  awakening  was  less  real 
than  her  dream.  In  the  midst  of  the  garden  Hamisi 
and  Onyango  sprawled  asleep  in  the  full  sunlight  with 
bent  arms  sheltering  their  eyes.  She  wondered  why 
they  did  not  lie  in  the  shade  of  the  row  of  flamboyant 
acacias  farther  back.  Now  they  were  bursting  into 
blood-red  bloom,  very  bright  against  their  rich  feathery 
leaves.  Beyond  them  the  mission  glared  in  the  sun. 
A  great  bougainvillea  had  oversprawled  the  white  cor- 
ner of  the  house  in  a  cascade  of  magenta  blossom. 
It  was  all  rather  fantastically  lovely,  so  lovely  that 
she  couldn't  help  feeling  she  ought  to  be  happy.  But 
she  was  too  hot  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Even  the  voices 
of  the  hornbills  calling  in  the  bush  drooped  with  heat. 

That  evening  when  James  came  home  from  the  for- 
est he  would  take  no  supper.  She  tried  to  coax  him  ; 
but  soon  discovered  that  he  was  irritable  and  de- 
pressed. Even  now,  at  sunset,  the  air  trembled  with 
heat.  She  said:  "It's  been  a  dreadful  day.  ...  I 
expect  the  heat  has  been  too  much  for  you.  You 
don't  take  enough  care  of  yourself." 

"Heat?  .  .  .  What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  re- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  55 

plied.  "It's  really  rather  chilly  .  .  .  quite  chilly  for 
Africa." 

Of  course  it  was  no  good  arguing  with  James,  so 
she  left  him  sitting  at  his  table  with  an  open  Bible 
before  him.  She  went  into  the  kitchen  and  busied  her- 
self with  the  distasteful  job  of  washing  her  own  dirty 
plates.  On  a  day  like  this  it  was  hardly  worth  while 
eating  if  the  process  implied  such  a  laborious  conse- 
quence. When  she  came  back  to  the  living-room,  in- 
tending to  finish  her  Pensax  letter,  she  found  her 
brother  swathed  in  a  blanket  which  he  had  fetched 
from  his  own  bed. 

"Why,  whatever  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she  cried. 

"I  told  you  it  was  chilly.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  boy,  you  must  be  ill." 

He  flared  up  in  a  way  that  was  quite  unusual  for 
him. 

"111?  .  .  .  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Eva.  ...  I'm 
never  ill.  I  haven't  time  to  be  ill." 

But  a  few  minutes  later  he  fell  a-shivering,  shak- 
ing horribly  within  his  blanket. 

"I  believe  there  is  something  the  matter  with  me," 
he  said.  "But  it  can't  be  fever.  It  can't  possibly 
be  fever.  I've  never  missed  taking  my  quinine,  and 
you  never  get  fever  if  you  take  quinine.  My  head 
aches.  I'd  better  go  to  bed." 

He  stalked  off  to  his  room,  a  pitifully  fantastic  fig- 
ure in  his  blanket.  Eva  brought  him  some  hot  milk. 
He  complained  that  it  tasted  bitter,  of  the  gourd,  but 
she  made  him  swallow  it.  Then  she  took  his  tern- 


56  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

perature  and  found  that  it  was  a  hundred  and  four. 
The  thermometer  chattered  between  his  teeth. 

"I  suppose  it  is  fever,"  he  said. 

All  that  night  she  stayed  near  his  bedside.  James 
was  not  a  pleasant  patient.  Even  now  he  wanted  all 
the  time  to  make  it  clear  that  his  illness  was  his  own 
affair  and  that  he  was  competent  to  deal  with  it.  Now 
the  blanket  was  too  much  for  him.  He  wanted  to 
throw  off  all  the  clothes  and  lie  in  his  cotton  night- 
shirt. His  head  still  ached,  but  he  was  excited  and 
talkative  and  would  not  let  her  sleep.  His  brain 
seethed  with  excitement  and  for  the  first  time  since 
they  had  been  at  Luguru  he  began  to  talk  to  her  about 
his  work  under  the  leaves.  He  told  her  many  things 
which  seemed  to  her  horrible:  so  horrible  that  she 
could  hardly  believe  that  they  were  anything  more 
than  imaginations  of  his  enhavocked  brain. 

"Now  you  see  what  we  are  fighting  against,"  he 
said;  "and  it's  only  the  beginning  .  .  .  it's  only  the 
beginning.  God  give  me  strength  to  finish  it,  to  go 
through  with  it" 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  prayed  aloud. 

That  night  there  was  no  sleep  for  either  of  them. 
Eva  lay  wakeful  on  the  stretcher  bed  in  his  room,  lis- 
tening now  to  the  wandering  talk  of  James  and  now 
to  the  howling  of  the  hyenas  over  on  the  edge  of 
the  forest. 

At  half -past  five  in  the  morning,  when  the  first 
light  came,  he  pulled  himself  together.  "I'm  all  right 
now,"  he  said.  "I've  a  big  day  in  front  of  me.  Will 
you  help  me  to  get  up?" 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  57 

She  thought  it  best  to  let  him  try.  When  he  got 
on  to  his  feet  he  swayed  and  clutched  at  the  bed  to 
steady  himself. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "Everything 
swims  .  .  .  the  whole  room  went  round  even  when  I 
shut  my  eyes.  I  must  be  ill.  What  can  I  do?  ... 
What  can  I  do?" 

She  was  thankful  that  he  had  proved  it  for  him- 
self. "This  is  where  I  come  in,"  she  thought,  con- 
vinced that  she  was  going  to  have  a  bad  time  of  it. 

For  four  days  James  kept  his  bed ;  as  long,  indeed, 
as  the  fever  had  its  way  with  him.  At  first  he  fought 
desperately;  but  in  a  little  while,  realising  that  he  was 
powerless,  he  submitted  to  her  tenderness.  "Really  " 
she  said,  "he  was  awfully  good  .  .  .  much  nicer  than 
when  he  was  well."  She  found  him  patient  and 
pathetic  .  .  .  almost  lovable,  quite  different  from  the 
acknowledged  success  of  the  family  which  he  had  been 
at  home ;  and  she  discovered  in  him — in  his  tired  eyes 
and  even  in  his  voice — an  amazing  hidden  likeness  to 
their  mother  which  almost  moved  her  to  tears.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  fever  had  suddenly  made  him  a  man 
instead  of  the  incarnation  of  a  spiritual  force.  Not 
even  a  man,  but  a  frail,  puzzled  boy,  with  no  preten- 
sions in  the  world.  He  appealed  to  her  dormant  in- 
stincts of  maternity,  making  her  all  tenderness.  She 
wanted  to  kiss  him  as  he  lay  there  with  the  open  un- 
read Bible — always  the  Bible — on  his  bed. 

When  he  was  at  his  worst  Godovius  called  to  in- 
quire. She  wondered  how  Godovius  knew  he  was  ill, 
not  realising  that  Godovius  knew  everything  in  Lu- 


58  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

guru.  He  met  her  on  the  stoep  and  cross-questioned 
her  narrowly.  How  much  quinine  was  he  taking? 
Five  grains  a  day?  P'ff!  .  .  .  Useless!  That  was 
the  English  method :  Manson's  method.  .  .  .  Proved 
useless  long  ago.  The  proper  way  of  taking  quinine 
was  the  German  way,  the  only  reasonable  way 
— ten  and  fifteen  grains  on  two  successive  days  once 
a  week.  That  was  the  only  prophylaxis  worth  con- 
sidering. He  told  her  to  look  at  himself,  standing 
there  in  his  fine,  swart  robustness,  and  looking  at  him 
she  remembered  the  poor,  transparent  child  whom  she 
had  left  within.  "And  what  about  yourself  ?"  he  said. 
"You  are  looking  tired,  pale."  She  blushed  in  a  way 
that  removed  the  second  accusation.  "You  must  not 
wear  yourself  out  for  him — you  who  are  young  and 
vigorous  and  magnificently  healthy."  His  interest 
confused  her,  and  she  slipped  into  the  house  to  see  if 
James  would  see  Godovius. 

He  was  greatly  agitated.     He,  too,  flushed. 

"Herr  Godovius?"  he  said.  "Why  does  he  come 
here  when  I  am  in  bed  ?  A  man  who  has  slaves !  No. 
.  .  .  No.  .  .  ." 

She  protested  that  he  had  come  with  the  kindest  in- 
tentions. 

"No  .  .  .  not  that  man,"  he  said. 

She  made  her  excuses  to  Godovius.  He  looked  at 
her  in  a  way  that  revealed  their  hollowness,  then 
laughed  and  rode  away.  "I  am  not  a  favourite  of 
your  brother?  Now  why  is  that?  Mr.  Bullace  and 
I  were  the  best  of  friends.  Do  you  think  we  had  more 
in  common?"  She  felt  that  he  had  surprised  her  in 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  59 

a  swift  remembrance  of  Mr.  Bullace's  whisky  bottles 
and  was  ashamed.  "It  is  better  that  we  should  be 
friendly,  don't  you  think  so  ?"  he  said. 

When  he  had  gone  she  told  James  that  she  thought 
Godovius  had  been  offended  by  the  return  which  had 
been  given  him  for  his  kindness.  "I  think  he  must 
have  heard  what  you  said  .  .  .  these  wooden  walls 
are  so  thin." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  .  .  .  very  sorry. 
I'm  not  quite  myself.  I  was  thinking  of  those  people 
in  the  forest.  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  help  it."  And 
then,  after  a  long  interval  of  thought,  he  said:  "I 
will  apologise  to  him.  It  was  un-Christian." 

She  melted:  humility  on  the  part  of  this  paragon 
always  knocked  her  over.  In  these  moments  she  very 
nearly  loved  him. 


II 

But  when  James  recovered  from  his  bout  of  fever 
this  delightful  atmosphere  of  intimacy  faded.  With 
diminished  strength  but  with  a  greater  seriousness 
than  ever  he  set  about  his  work.  Eva  found  him  in- 
creasingly difficult. 

I  suppose  that  he  had  expected  to  go  back  to  his 
work  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  or  even,  in 
some  miraculous  way,  to  make  up  the  time  which  he 
had  lost.  He  didn't  realise  in  the  least  how  much  the 
fever  had  taken  out  of  him.  The  walk  to  the  forest 
in  the  morning  seemed  twice  as  long :  the  upward  path, 
in  the  evening,  purgatorial.  Even  in  the  heart  of  the 


60  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

forest  itself  the  atmosphere  of  hopelessness,  of  evil 
swarming  like  the  wood's  lush  green  seemed  never  to 
leave  him.  Perhaps  it  was  that  now  he  couldn't  face 
it.  All  his  day  was  comparable  to  those  moments 
in  which  he  had  heard  the  menace  of  distant  drums. 
Often,  indeed,  in  the  midst  of  his  ministrations  he 
would  hear  them,  so  distant  that  he  couldn't  be  sure 
whether  they  were  not  some  trick  of  his  fancy,  and 
he  would  ask  the  Waluguru  women  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  sound.  They  would  shrug  their 
shoulders,  smiling  their  soft,  deprecating  smile  of 
Africa  with  half-closed  eyelids,  and  say  that  they  did 
not  know. 

"N'goma,"  they  would  say  ...  "a  dance." 

"N'goma  gani?"  .  .  .  "What  sort  of  dance?"  he 
would  ask.  "A  devil  dance?" 

At  this  they  would  only  smile.  There  was  no  get- 
ting on  with  these  people.  .  .  . 

He  determined  that  if  they  would  not  help  him  he 
must  find  out  for  himself  :  and  so  when  next  he  heard 
the  beat  of  drums  in  the  forest  he  left  the  colony  of 
huts  in  which  he  was  working  and  set  off  in  pursuit 
of  the  sound.  Through  endless  mazy  paths  of  the 
swamp  he  pressed,  baffled  by  many  changes  of  direc- 
tion— for  when  he  had  struggled  for  a  mile  or  two 
it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  forest  was  full  of  drums, 
as  if  the  drummers  were  leading  him  a  fool's  dance 
and  their  noise  no  more  than  an  elusive  emanation 
of  the  swamp,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  of  sound. 

It  was  a  terrible  quest,  for  he  was  already  tired,  and 
his  eagerness  carried  him  far  beyond  his  strength. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  61 

Several  times  the  drumming  ceased,  leaving  him  in  a 
silence  of  utter  desolation,  making  him  think  that  his 
struggles  had  been  all  for  nothing.  At  others  it 
seemed  so  close  to  him  that  he  pushed  through  tan- 
gles of  undergrowth  which  no  sane  man  would  have 
attempted,  only  to  find  that  he  was  no  nearer  his  goal. 

He  must  have  wandered  many  miles.  In  that  part 
of  the  forest  he  found  no  villages,  and  all  the  time 
he  never  saw  the  sun ;  but  experience  had  taught  him 
that  he  must  carry  a  compass,  and  by  this  he  judged 
that  under  the  leaves  he  was  gradually  approaching 
that  part  of  the  swamp  which  clung  about  the  river  at 
the  point  where  it  issues  from  a  deep  cleft  in  the 
conical  hill  on  which  Godovius's  house  was  built. 
Time  was  pressing.  Farther  than  this  he  dared  not 
go,  or  darkness  would  overtake  him,  and  in  darkness 
he  could  not  return. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up  his  search  when 
the  drumming  burst  out  again,  a  little  to  the  right. 
He  crossed  a  creek,  knee-deep  in  black  mud,  and 
pushed  his  way  into  a  clear  space  where  the  smaller 
trees  had  been  felled  and  the  pointed  roofs  of  bandas 
rose  among  the  plantain  leaves.  As  he  set  foot  within 
the  clearing  the  drum  ceased.  He  heard  a  shriek 
that  sounded  scarcely  human.  Surely  he  had  broken 
in  upon  some  unspeakable  torture.  But  when  he 
came  into  the  open  space  between  the  huts  he  saw 
nothing  more  than  a  little  group  of  Waluguru  women, 
who  cried  out  in  surprise  at  the  invasion  of  this  pale, 
bedraggled  figure. 

There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  of  them,  and  it  seemed 


62  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

to  him  that  they  had  been  engaged  in  the  crushing 
of  sugar-cane  for  the  making  of  tembo,  their  fer- 
mented drink,  for  they  were  grouped  about  two  of  the 
hollowed  trunks  in  which  the  fibre  is  shredded  with 
poles  in  the  manner  of  a  pestle  and  mortar.  That 
was  all  that  he  could  see,  except  for  one  old  man, 
with  an  evil  face,  squatting  in  the  doorway  of  the 
largest  banda,  staring  straight  before  him,  and  one 
woman,  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  years,  who  lay 
almost  naked  on  the  ground  with  her  arms  clasped 
above  her  head,  as  though  she  were  asleep  or  very  ill. 

James  addressed  them,  and  the  old  man  gravely  re- 
turned his  salutation  with  a  flat  hand  lifted  to  his 
brow.  He  blurted  out  rapid  questions.  He  had 
heard  a  drum.  Where  was  the  N'goma? 

They  shook  their  heads  and  smiled.  They  knew 
of  no  N'goma. 

He  spoke  to  them  of  other  things:  of  food  and 
fever  .  .  .  life  and  death  .  .  .  the  matters  which 
most  concerned  them.  They  answered  him  politely, 
but  with  a  tired  tolerance.  Food  was  scarce,  and 
the  devil  of  fever  was  among  them;  but  it  was  al- 
ways so. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  getting  late.  He 
knew  that  he  had  failed  again  and  that  he  must  go. 
When  James  pulled  out  his  watch  he  saw  the  eyes  of 
the  old  man  light  up  and  heard  a  murmur  among  the 
women  in  which  he  caught  the  word  Sakharani.  Of 
course  .  .  .  Godovius,  too,  had  a  watch.  No  peo- 
ple, it  seemed,  were  too  remote  to  know  Godovius. 
He  wondered  if  Bullace  had  ever  visited  this  village. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  63 

He  turned  to  go,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  gal- 
loping triplets  of  another  drum  began  in  some  neigh- 
bouring village.  He  saw  the  women  smile,  and  this 
irritated  him  so  much  that  he  burst  out  into  abuse  of 
the  old  man,  who  still  sat  unsmiling  in  the  door  of  his 
banda.  And  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  The 
body  of  the  girl  who  had  lain  motionless  upon  the 
ground  in  their  midst  was  shaken  by  a  sound  that  was 
like  a  sob,  but  somehow  less  human.  Her  hands, 
which  had  been  sheltering  her  head,  clutched  at  her 
breasts.  Then,  as  the  faint  drumming  continued,  her 
head  began  to  move  in  time,  her  limbs  and  her  body 
were  gradually  drawn  into  the  measure  of  the  distant 
rhythm  till,  with  a  steadily  increasing  violence,  each 
muscle  of  her  slender  frame  seemed  to  be  obeying  this 
tyrannical  influence,  so  that  she  was  no  longer  mistress 
of  herself,  no  longer  anything  but  a  mass  of  quiver- 
ing, palpitating  muscle.  A  horrible  sight  .  .  .  very 
horrible.  And  then,  when  her  miserable  body  was  so 
torn  that  the  tortured  muscles  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
there  was  wrung  from  her  that  ghastly,  sub-human 
cry  which  James  had  heard  in  the  forest  as  he  ap- 
proached. It  was  like  the  noise  which  a  cat  makes 
when  it  is  in  pain. 

The  others  took  no  heed  of  her;  they  went  on 
pounding  tembo;  but  James,  to  whose  disordered 
nerves  the  horror  of  the  sight  had  become  intoler- 
able, could  do  no  more.  He  burst  out  again  into  the 
forest,  pushing  his  way  blindly  through  vast  tangles 
which  he  might  have  avoided,  spending  the  remains 
of  his  strength  in  a  futile  endeavour  to  escape  any- 


64  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

where,  anyhow,  from  that  nightmare.  The  forest 
grew  darker.  Even  in  the  open  bush,  when  he 
emerged,  the  short  twilight  had  come.  For  him  it  was 
enough  to  know  that  he  was  out  of  the  forest  He 
lay  down  at  the  side  of  the  path  panting  and  trem- 
bling. Here,  in  the  cool  of  the  night,  his  reason  grad- 
ually reasserted  itself.  He  was  humiliated  and 
ashamed  to  realise  that  his  faith  had  failed  him,  that 
terror  had  broken  the  strength  of  his  spirit.  And 
thus,  being  full  of  repentance,  he  seriously  considered 
whether  he  should  not  turn  back,  pushing  his  way 
through  the  forest  to  that  remote  village,  and  see  the 
business  through.  This  time  he  would  be  certain  not 
to  fail.  In  the  end  he  abandoned  this  test,  which  he 
would  gladly  have  undergone;  for  he  doubted  if  he 
could  find  the  path  again,  and  guessed  that  his  pur- 
pose would  probably  be  ruined  by  another  attack  of 
fever.  But  he  determined  that  once  again,  in  day- 
light, he  would  find  that  village  and  that  woman,  that 
he  would  strip  bare  the  mysteries  which  it  contained, 
and  that  by  faith  and  prayer  he  would  conquer  them. 


in 

Of  course  he  did  not  confide  in  Eva.  To  him  she 
was  never  any  more  than  the  small  girl  who  had 
watched  his  triumphs  from  the  seclusion  of  the  little 
shop  at  Far  Forest,  to  whom  the  privilege  of  deal- 
ing with  his  clothes,  mired  in  in  the  M'ssente  swamps, 
was  now  entrusted.  Indeed  it  was  a  pity  that  he  left 
Eva  out  of  his  preoccupations;  for  nothing  is  more 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  65 

dangerous  to  the  born  mystic  than  isolation  from  his 
fellow  men,  and  the  conditions  of  the  isolation  which 
James  endured  in  the  forest  were  extreme.  It  is 
doubtful,  too,  whether  the  constant  companionship  of 
such  fiery  fellows  as  the  prophets  Isaiah  and  Ezekiel, 
to  whom  James  resorted  in  the  hours  when  he  sat  in 
loneliness  with  his  open  Bible,  was  good  for  him  in  his 
present  state  of  unstable  emotion.  The  directness,  the 
simplicity,  the  common-sense  of  Eva  would  have 
helped  him ;  but  she  knew  better  than  to  interrupt  her 
brother  when  he  was  engaged  with  the  prophets.  In 
Far  Forest  they  called  it  The  Book. 

So  James  went  on  his  way,  fighting  for  ever  against 
the  weakness  to  which  his  fever  had  reduced  him  in 
this  visionary  company.  For  sheer  weakness  he  was 
forced  to  spend  more  time  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  mission,  busying  himself  with  the  education  of 
Mr.  Bullace's  converts,  whom  he  had  rather  neglected 
in  his  anxieties  to  break  new  ground.  To  break  new 
ground.  .  .  .  His  mind  was  always  ready  to  play  with 
words,  and  thinking  of  this  familiar  metaphor,  he 
remembered  one  day  how  an  old  African  planter  had 
spoken  with  him  on  board  ship ;  how  he  had  told  him 
that  he  should  never  dig  a  trench  for  storm  water 
round  his  tent,  because  the  act  of  breaking  virgin  soil 
released  the  miasma  of  fever  inherent  in  the  jealous 
earth.  That,  he  thought,  was  figuratively  what  had 
happened  to  him.  And  finding  that  he  had  worked 
the  metaphor  to  its  logical  conclusion,  he  was 
ashamed  to  think  that  his  mind  could  have  been  di- 
verted into  such  foolish  byways. 


66  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

He  was  so  eager  to  assure  himself  that  he  had 
recovered  his  balance  that  he  deliberately  discounted 
things  which  at  one  time  would  have  disturbed  or 
frightened  him.  But  one  thing  he  could  not  persuade 
himself  to  dismiss  from  his  thoughts,  try  as  he  might 
— there  was  scarcely  a  day  in  his  life  when  he  did  not 
find  it  staring  him  in  the  face  or  lurking  invisibly 
behind  the  disappointments  that  troubled  him — and 
this  was  the  influence  of  Godovius  among  the  Walu- 
guru.  Whenever  he  found  himself  thwarted  by  some 
failure,  often  enough  a  small  thing  in  itself,  he  was 
conscious  of  the  man's  imminence.  The  name  of 
Sakharani  was  often  the  only  word  which  he  could 
recognise  in  whisperings  that  were  not  meant  for  his 
ear.  When  the  shambas  of  Godovius  needed  tilling 
the  mission  classes  must  go.  In  every  occurrence  that 
balked  him,  in  every  mystery  that  baffled,  the  influ- 
ence of  Sakharani  was  betrayed.  And  as  time  went 
by  he  realised  that  the  menace  was  a  very  real  one. 
He  felt  that  he  was  actually  losing  grip,  so  that  a 
sense  of  insecurity  invaded  even  the  matters  in  which 
he  had  felt  most  confident.  The  fact  had  to  be  faced : 
the  original  congregation  of  the  mission,  the  very 
existence  of  which  had  gladdened  and  strengthened 
his  heart  on  Sundays,  was  undoubtedly  dwindling ;  and 
what  vexed  him  even  more  was  to  find  that  some  of 
his  favourite  converts,  men  on  whom  he  had  felt  he 
could  rely  and  whose  tongues  were  accustomed  to 
the  Christian  formulae,  seemed  to  fail  him  as  readily 
as  the  others.  He  was  honestly  and  miserably  puz- 
zled. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  67 

Almost  against  his  will  he  began  to  suspect  the  hand 
of  Godovius  in  every  trace  of  opposition  which  he 
encountered.  Whenever  he  failed  he  grew  to  dread 
the  mention  of  Godovius's  name.  And  this  was  all 
the  more  troubling  because  Godovius  came  fairly  fre- 
quently to  the  mission.  When  James  returned  in  the 
evening  he  would  find  flowers  from  Njumba  ja  Mweze 
in  his  study,  or  hear  from  Eva  that  he  had  been  help- 
ing her  in  the  garden  or  lent  her  some  new  book. 
It  distressed  him.  He  never  spoke  of  him  to  Eva; 
but  for  all  that  he  would  wait  anxiously  for  her  to 
mention  his  name,  and  that  feeling  of  insecurity  and 
grudging  would  come  over  him  whenever  the  name 
appeared. 

It  was  after  many  weeks  that  his  growing  distrust 
reached  its  climax.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  set  out 
early  one  day  to  visit  the  village  to  which  he  had 
penetrated  in  search  of  the  heathen  drums.  That  day 
the  way  seemed  miraculously  easy.  He  could  scarce- 
ly believe  that  he  was  passing  through  those  miles 
of  tangled  forest  in  which  he  had  once  struggled  to 
exhaustion;  but  when  he  arrived  there  the  little  circle 
of  huts  was  the  same  as  ever;  the  same  women  were 
crushing  sugar-cane  for  tembo;  the  same  evil- faced 
man  squatted  in  the  mouth  of  the  greatest  banda.  He 
talked  to  them,  and  they  answered  him  happily  enough 
until  he  came  to  question  them  about  the  girl  who  had 
then  been  lying  on  the  ground  and  had  only  been 
recalled  to  consciousness  by  the  thud  of  the  distant 
drum.  When  he  asked  for  her  they  dissembled,  with 
their  soft  African  smiles.  He  became  suspicious  and 


68  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

pressed  them.  Where  was  she?  He  would  not  go 
until  they  told  him  where  she  was.  The  women  began 
to  speak;  but  the  old  man  in  the  mouth  of  the  banda 
made  them  be  silent. 

James  started  to  question  him,  asked  him  why  he 
would  not  let  them  answer. 

"It  is  Sakharani's  business.  That  is  enough,"  said 
the  old  man.  "She  has  gone  away." 

Where  she  had  gone  he  would  not  say,  protesting 
that  he  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  that  she  had 
gone  from  them  at  the  last  new  moon.  Perhaps  she 
would  return.  That  was  the  business  of  Sakharani. 
More  than  this  he  could  not  say. 

"I  shall  find  out,"  said  James.  "You  know  you 
are  deceiving  me.  ..." 

The  old  man  only  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

Walking  home  that  evening  on  the  bush  path  James 
heard  a  scurry  of  hoofs  and  saw  the  big  outline  of 
Godovius  cantering  down  on  his  Somali  mule,  with 
a  Waluguru  boy  running  at  his  stirrup.  Godovius,  too, 
spotted  him,  and  waved  him  a  cheery  good-evening. 
James  guessed  that  he  had  been  up  at  the  mission. 
He  determined  to  speak  to  Eva. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  her  busy  laying 
the  table  for  him.  She  seemed  happy  and  well:  she 
was  humming  to  herself  an  old  song  that  reminded 
him  of  Far  Forest.  He  would  speak  to  her  now.  .  .  . 

He  said :  "Has  Mr.  Godovius  been  here  ?" 

"Yes  ...  he  has  only  just  gone." 

"Why  does  he  come  here?" 

She  wondered  why  he  was  asking  this  with  such 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  6g 

intensity.  "Why  on  earth  shouldn't  he?"  she  said. 
"He  is  very  kind." 

"I  don't  wish  him  to  come  here.  I  don't  think  he 
is  a  good  man.  I  don't  think  he  is  fit  company  for 

you.  To-day "  He  stopped,  for  it  struck  him 

that  he  might  appear  foolish  if  he  went  on.  He  said : 
"You  like  him?" 

"No  ...  I  don't  think  I  do,  exactly.  I  don't  mind 
him.  He's  .  .  .  he's  funny,  you  know.  ...  I  don't 
think  I  understand  him." 

"Has  he  been  making  love  to  you?"  James  asked 
in  a  whisper. 

Eva  blushed. 

"Of  course  he  hasn't.    What  an  idea!" 

She  thought:  "How  very  funny.  .  .  .  James  is 
jealous.  Father  was  like  that." 

He  had  felt  sure  that  she  would  prevaricate.  Her 
directness  took  the  wind  out  of  his  sails.  He  felt 
rather  ashamed  of  his  suspicions. 

"I'm  sorry  I  asked  you  that  question,"  he  said.  "I'm 
sorry.  But  don't  forget  that  I  warned  you." 

She  laughed  to  herself.  The  idea  of  Godovius  as 
a  lover  struck  her  as  grotesque.  Later  she  wondered 
why  it  had  struck  her  as  grotesque. 


CHAPTER  V 


I  N  those  days  James  was  never  free  from  fever 
•*•  for  long,  despite  the  German  method  of  quinine 
prophylaxis  to  which,  in  defiance  of  Manson,  he  had 
submitted.  It  seemed  as  if  the  tertian  parasite — and 
there  is  none  more  malignant  than  that  which  the 
M'ssente  Swamp  breeds — had  rejoiced  to  find  a  vir- 
gin blood  in  which  it  might  flourish  as  long  as  life 
lasted.  Every  ten  days  or  so  Eva  would  find  herself 
called  upon  to  face  a  new  attack.  She  became  used 
to  the  succession  of  shivering  and  high  fever;  she 
began  to  know  exactly  when  James  should  be  bullied 
and  when  he  should  be  left  alone;  to  realise  how  the 
sweet  submissiveness  of  the  sick  man  merged  into  the 
irritability  of  the  convalescent.  Symptoms  that  once 
would  have  frightened  her  out  of  her  life  were  now 
part  of  the  day's  work.  She  steadfastly  determined 
that  she  would  let  nothing  worry  her.  It  was  just  as 
well  to  have  one  equable  person  in  the  house. 

Godovius  still  came  to  the  mission  from  time  to 
time.  Eva  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  almost  any  man ;  for  the  idea  of  being 
quite  alone  in  those  savage  solitudes  was  frightening. 
She  was  not  ignorant  of  the  power  of  disease  in  that 
country.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  some  day 

70 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  71 

"something  might  happen"  (as  they  say)  to  James, 
and  without  definitely  anticipating  it  she  felt  a  little 
happier  for  having  the  strength  of  Godovius  behind 
her.  For  he  was  strong,  whatever  else  he  might  be. 
In  his  presence  she  was  always  conscious  of  that: 
and  even  if  his  strength  seemed  at  times  a  little  sinister, 
there  were  moments  in  which  he  struck  her  as  wholly 
charming,  almost  boyish,  particularly  when  he  smiled 
and  his  beautiful  teeth  showed  white  against  the  ruddy 
swarthiness  of  his  face.  Seriously,  too,  he  was  ready 
to  help  her. 

"Your  brother  is  overworking,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
think  the  unfortunate  results  to  himself  are  balanced 
by  any  colossal  success  in  his  work?  Do  you?  I 
think  he  should  take  a  little  alcohol  ...  a  sundowner 
.  .  .  quite  a  good  thing  for  Europeans." 

Eva  smiled.     "He'd  have  a  fit  if  I  told  him  that." 

"Would  he  ?  ...  In  many  ways  your  brother  does 
not  resemble  the  Good  Bullace.  And  yet  in  others  I 
think  he  deserves  a  little  of  my  name  .  .  .  Sakhar- 
ani."  He  laughed.  "I  believe,  Miss  Eva,  you  are 
still  rather  frightened  of  my  name.  Now  how  long 
is  it  since  last  you  saw  me  drunk?" 

Even  though  she  protested,  she  wasn't  altogether 
sure  that  he  was  joking. 

"But  you  never  know  when  I  may  break  out,"  he 
said.  "Now  you  witness  nothing  but  my  admirable 
self-control." 

Every  time  that  Godovius  came  to  see  her  when 
James  was  in  bed  her  brother  would  question  her 
narrowly  as  to  what  he  had  said.  His  persistence 


72  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

annoyed  her,  because  it  seemed  to  her  ungenerous  that 
he  should  not  take  Godovius  as  he  found  him. 

"I  sha'n't  tell  you  when  next  he  comes,"  she  said 
one  day. 

"That  would  be  no  good.  ...  I  know  ...  I  have 
a  feeling  in  my  bones  when  he  is  here.  It's  like  some 
people  who  shiver  when  a  cat  comes  into  the  room 
even  if  they  don't  see  it." 

"I  think  it's  rather  horrid  of  you,"  she  said.  "Is 
it  that  you're  jealous?  ...  Or  don't  you  trust  me?" 

"Oh,  I  trust  you  all  right,"  he  said  bitterly. 

In  the  intervals  between  his  attacks  he  brightened 
up  wonderfully.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  he 
was  the  same  man;  but  for  all  this  he  had  lost  a  great 
deal  of  weight,  and  his  face  showed  a  blue  and  yellow 
pallor  which  alarmed  her.  And  he  was  sleeping  very 
badly.  Eva  became  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps  walking  up  and  down  his  room  at  night,  and 
to  the  whining  voice  in  which  he  would  recite  long 
passages  of  scripture.  She  knew  that  some  day  there 
must  come  a  big  breakdown.  Yes  ...  it  was  good 
to  have  Godovius  behind  her. 


Insidiously  the  occasion  which  she  had  looked  for 
came.  An  ordinary  attack  of  malaria,  one  of  her 
brother's  usual  ten-daily  diversions,  flamed  suddenly 
into  a  condition  which  she  could  not  understand.  The 
babble  of  a  night  of  delirium  died  away,  and  in  the 
morning,  with  cheeks  still  flushed  and  all  the  signs 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  73 

of  fever  with  which  she  was  familiar,  Eva  found  him 
becoming  drowsy  and  yet  more  drowsy.  Usually  in 
this  stage  of  the  disease  she  knew  him  to  be  exacting 
and  restlessly  active.  This  time  when  she  came  to 
give  him  food  she  had  difficulty  in  rousing  him.  He 
lay  huddled  on  his  side  with  his  legs  drawn  up  and 
his  face  turned  away  from  the  light.  Even  when  she 
had  wakened  him  he  fell  asleep  again.  The  warm  milk 
which  she  had  brought  him  went  cold  under  a  yellow- 
ish scum  at  his  bedside.  All  that  afternoon  she  did 
not  once  hear  him  praying. 

She  became  anxious.  Perhaps  Godovius  would 
come.  She  wished  that  he  would;  for  she  knew  that 
he  could  help  her :  all  the  Waluguru  bore  witness  how 
great  a  medicine-man  he  was.  But  Godovius  did  not 
come.  "Just  because  I  want  him,"  she  thought 

For  a  few  moments  in  the  afternoon  James  bright- 
ened up.  He  complained  to  her  of  the  pain  in  his 
head,  which  he  had  clasped  in  his  hands  all  day;  but 
even  as  he  spoke  to  her  his  mind  wandered,  wandered 
back  into  the  Book  of  Kings  and  the  story  of  the 
Shunammite's  son.  "And  he  said  unto  his  father,  My 
head,  my  head.  And  he  said  to  a  lad:  Carry  him 
to  his  mother,"  he  muttered.  Then  he  was  quiet  for 
a  little.  Eva  sat  by  his  side,  watching.  Now  at  last 
he  seemed  to  be  sleeping  gently.  She  expected  that 
this  was  what  he  needed,  but  in  the  early  evening, 
when  next  she  wanted  to  feed  him,  he  would  not 
wake.  She  spoke  to  him,  and  gently  shook  him.  A 
terror  seized  her  lest  he  should  have  died.  No  , 


74  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

he  was  still  breathing.  For  so  much  she  might  be 
thankful. 

Something  must  be  done.  In  this  extremity  her 
mind  naturally  turned  to  Godovius.  At  James's  desk 
she  scribbled  a  note  to  him,  and  ran  out  into  the 
compound  at  the  back  of  the  house  to  the  hut  of  gal- 
vanised iron  in  which  the  boys  slept.  She  called  them 
both  by  name,  but  no  answer  came.  The  mouth  of 
their  den  was  covered  with  an  old  piece  of  sacking, 
which  she  pulled  aside,  releasing  an  air  that  stank  of 
wood-smoke,  and  oil  and  black  flesh.  Almost  sick- 
ened, she  peered  inside.  Only  one  of  the  boys  was 
sleeping  there.  He  lay  curled  up  in  the  corner,  so 
that  she  could  not  see  which  of  them  it  was,  his 
head  and  shoulders  covered  with  a  dirty  red  blanket. 
She  had  to  shake  him  before  she  could  rouse  him. 
He  stared  at  her  out  of  the  darkness  with  dazed  eyes. 
Then  he  smiled,  and  she  saw  by  his  filed  cannibal 
teeth  that  it  was  Onyango,  the  M'kamba  .  .  .  just 
the  one  whom  she  didn't  want.  Hamisi,  the  Luguru, 
would  have  known  the  way  to  Godovius's  house. 

"Where  is  Hamisi?"  she  asked. 

Onyango  still  rubbed  his  eyes.  He  did  not  know. 
She  told  him  that  Hamisi  must  be  found.  He  shook 
his  head  and  smiled.  Hamisi,  he  said,  could  not  be 
found.  It  was  useless  to  try  and  find  him. 

Eva  was  irritated  by  his  foolish,  smiling  face.  Why 
had  Hamisi  gone  away,  just  when  he  was  wanted 
most?  she  asked. 

Onyango  mumbled  something  which  surpassed  her 
knowledge  of  Swahili  .  .  .  something  about  the  new 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  75 

moon.  What  in  the  world  had  the  new  moon  to  do 
with  it?  ... 

Very  well,  then,  she  decided — Onyango  must  take 
Godovius's  letter. 

"You  know  the  house  of  Sakharani?"  she  said. 
"Carry  this  barua  to  Sakharani  himself  .  .  .  quickly 
.  .  .  very  quickly."  She  gave  him  the  letter.  Ony- 
ango shrank  back  into  his  corner.  He  wouldn't  take 
the  letter,  he  said.  If  he  took  the  letter  on  this  night 
the  Waluguru  would  kill  him.  She  didn't  seem  to 
understand,  and  he  made  the  motion  of  a  violent  spear- 
thrust,  then  clutched  at  his  breast.  Eva  tried  to  laugh 
him  out  of  it,  to  make  him  ashamed  at  being  afraid ; 
but  it  was  no  good.  Why  should  the  Waluguru  kill 
him?  she  asked. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  new  moon,  he  said. 

She  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  waste  time  over 
him.  While  they  had  been  disputing  the  sun  had  set. 
It  was  a  beautiful  and  very  peaceful  evening.  The 
crowns  of  the  cro ton-trees  were  awakening  that  soft 
zodiacal  glow.  She  was  very  angry  and  worried,  for 
she  realised  that  she  would  have  to  go  herself. 

"Very  well,  then,  you  must  stay  with  the  bwana," 
she  said :  and  Onyango,  who  still  wanted  to  be  ingrati- 
ating and  was  ready  to  do  anything  but  face  the  new 
moon  and  the  Waluguru,  slunk  into  the  house.  She 
took  a  last  look  at  James.  There  was  no  difference 
in  his  condition  except  that  now  he  was  obviously 
alive,  breathing  stertorously  through  his  mouth,  lying 
there  with  his  eyes  half  opened.  She  wondered  for 
a  moment  if  she  dared  leave  him.  "Tell  the  bwana 


76  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

when  he  wakes,"  she  said  to  Onyango,  "where  I  have 
gone.  Say  that  I  will  come  back  again."  She  feared 
to  stay  there  any  longer,  for  in  a  little  while  it  would 
be  dark.  She  comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that 
the  road  through  the  forest  to  Njumba  ja  Mweze  must 
be  fairly  well  defined,  since  Godovius  used  it  so  often. 
She  couldn't  disguise  from  herself  the  fact  that  the 
adventure  was  rather  frightening,  but  the  thing  had 
to  be  done,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

So  she  took  the  forest  road.  In  the  open  Park 
Steppe  there  were  already  signs  of  night :  most  of  all 
a  silence  in  which  no  voices  of  birds  were  heard, 
and  other  dry  rustlings,  which  would  have  been  sub- 
merged beneath  the  noises  of  day,  heralded  the  awak- 
ening of  another  kind  of  life.  In  the  branches  of 
thorn-trees  on  every  side  the  cicalas  set  up  vibra- 
tions: as  rapid  and  intense  as  those  of  an  electric 
spark:  a  very  natural  sound,  for  it  seemed  to  be  an 
expression  of  that  highly  charged  silence.  In  a  wide 
slade  of  grasses  a  herd  of  kongoni  were  grazing. 
When  they  caught  the  scent  of  Eva  they  reached  their 
heads  above  the  grasses,  and  after  following  her  for 
a  little  with  their  eyes  one  of  them  took  fright,  and 
with  one  accord  they  flashed  into  the  bordering  bush, 
a  flying  streak  of  brown.  An  aged  wildebeeste  bull, 
vanquished  in  some  old  duel  and  banished  from  his 
own  herd,  stood  sentinel  to  the  kongoni,  and  when  the 
others  disappeared  he  held  his  ground,  standing  with 
his  enormous  shoulders  firmly  planted  on  his  fore 
feet.  Eva  was  rather  frightened  of  him,  for  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  nature  or  habits  of  big  game.  As 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  77 

she  passed  across  the  opening  of  that  glade  he  slowly 
turned,  so  that  his  great  shoulders  and  lowered  head 
were  always  facing  her.  Some  unimaginable  breeze 
must  have  been  moving  from  her  towards  him,  for 
he  suddenly  threw  up  his  head,  snorting,  and  stamped 
the  ground.  Then  she  picked  up  her  skirts  and  ran, 
with  his  mighty  breathing  still  in  her  ears.  She  saw 
that  this  night  journey  of  hers  was  going  to  be  no 
joke.  In  the  night  so  many  savage  beasts  were  abroad. 
She  remembered  that  less  than  a  week  before  Godo- 
vius  had  shot  a  leopard  on  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
He  had  told  her  how  the  creature  had  been  lying 
along  the  low  branch  of  a  tree,  and  how  it  had  sprung 
into  the  midst  of  a  herd  of  goats  which  a  Waluguru 
boy  was  driving  along  the  track.  Godovius  had  been 
near  and  his  second  shot  had  killed  it.  He  had  offered 
her  the  skin.  Now,  for  the  very  first  time,  she  realised 
the  savagery  of  that  land.  In  the  mission  there  had 
always  dwelt  a  sense  of  homeliness  and  protection. 
She  realised,  too,  the  conditions  in  which  James  had 
been  working.  Poor  James.  .  .  .  She  couldn't  help 
feeling  that  she  herself  was  better  qualified  to  deal  with 
that  sort  of  thing  than  her  brother.  She  pulled  all 
her  courage  together. 

She  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Black  and 
immense  it  lay  before  her.  If  she  made  haste  she 
might  still  borrow  a  little  courage  from  the  light.  The 
sky  above  the  tree-tops  was  now  deepening  to  a  dusky 
blue.  As  yet  no  stars  appeared;  but  over  the  crown 
of  that  sudden  hill  a  slender  crescent  of  the 
new  moon  was  soaring.  A  lovely  slip  of  a  thing  she 


78  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

seemed  sailing  in  that  liquid  sky.  A  memory  of  Eva's 
childhood  reminded  her  that  if  she  had  been  carrying 
money  in  her  pocket  she  should  have  turned  it  for 
luck  and  wished.  .  .  .  What  would  she  have  wished? 

It  gave  her  a  new  assurance  to  find  that  under  the 
leaves  the  path  was  well  defined.  She  reckoned  that 
she  had  at  the  most  no  more  than  three  miles  to  go. 
At  the  end  of  three  miles  she  would  see  the  lights  of 
Godovius's  house  and  not  be  frightened  any  longer. 
She  made  up  her  mind  to  travel  as  fast  as  she  could, 
looking  neither  to  left  nor  right,  for  fear  of  eyes 
which  might  be  watching  her  from  the  thickets.  She 
comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that  it  was  here 
that  the  Waluguru  lived ;  that  they  had  lived  here  for 
centuries  and  were  as  unprotected  as  herself ;  that  there 
were  actually  women  and  children  living  there  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest.  In  the  silence  she  heard  the  soft 
cooing  of  a  dove,  and  a  minute  later  a  couple  of  small 
grey  birds  fluttered  up  from  the  path.  "As  harmless 
as  doves,"  she  thought.  "You  beautiful  little  crea- 
tures. .  .  ."  And  she  smiled. 

As  she  penetrated  farther  into  the  forest  the  light 
failed  her,  and  it  was  very  still.  The  little  fluttering 
doves  were  the  last  creatures  that  she  saw  for  a  long 
time.  Of  the  people  of  the  forest  there  was  no  sign, 
and  she  would  have  thought  that  there  were  no  beasts 
abroad  either  but  for  an  occasional  distant  sound  of 
crashing  branches  made  by  some  body  bigger  and  more 
powerful  than  that  of  a  man.  By  the  time  that  the 
light  of  day  had  wholly  faded  from  the  sky  she  had 
come  to  a  zone  of  the  forest  in  which  the  trees  were 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  79 

more  thinly  scattered:  between  their  high  branches 
stars  appeared,  in  front  of  her  a  blurred  outline, 
which  she  took  to  be  that  of  Kilima  ja  Mweze,  above 
which  the  crescent  moon  now  whitely  shone.  A  little 
later  she  found  that  the  track  was  ascending.  It  had 
reached  the  slopes  of  the  conical  hill  on  which  she 
knew  that  Godovius's  house  was  placed.  Here  under 
a  brighter  starlight  she  could  see  that  the  whole  hill- 
side was  cut  into  terraces,  like  the  stages  of  a  wedding 
cake,  along  the  face  of  which  the  track  climbed  ob- 
liquely. It  reassured  her  to  find  that  she  was  now 
within  a  definite  sphere  of  human  influence,  that  the 
most  savage  part  of  her  pilgrimage  was  past :  but  the 
road  made  stiff  climbing:  the  mantle  of  forest  had 
concealed  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hill  so  completely 
that  she  had  never  realised  how  abruptly  it  rose  from 
the  swamp. 

Suddenly,  in  the  half  light,  she  saw  upon  the  terrace 
above  her  a  building  of  stone.  She  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment to  regain  her  breath,  for  this  must  surely  be  one 
of  the  outbuildings  of  the  House  of  the  Moon.  When 
she  came  abreast  of  it  she  was  puzzled  to  find  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  circular  wall  of  rough  stones  piled 
one  upon  the  other.  All  around  it  the  forest  trees  had 
been  cut  down;  and  this  seemed  to  her  a  great  waste 
of  labour,  for  the  building  could  obviously  be  no  more 
than  a  stone  kraal  for  the  protection  of  cattle.  Now 
it  was  empty.  The  track  which  she  was  following 
passed  close  to  the  only  breach  in  the  circle  of  stone. 
She  peered  inside,  and  saw  that  the  wall  was  double. 
In  the  centre  of  the  circular  space  within  rose  a 


8o  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

strange  tower,  shaped  like  a  conical  lime-kiln  of  the 
kind  which  she  had  known  at  home  but  more  slender, 
and  fashioned  of  the  same  rough  stone  as  the  double 
walls  outside.  As  she  looked  within  her  presence  dis- 
turbed another  flight  of  doves,  fluttering  pale  in  the 
moonlight.  She  wondered  whatever  could  be  the 
meaning  of  this  building,  for  the  doves  would  not 
nest  there  if  it  were  used  by  men  and  cattle;  but  her 
curiosity  was  overborne  by  her  disappointment  at  find- 
ing that  her  journey  was  not  yet  over.  From  that 
clearing  she  passed  once  more  into  denser  forest,  un- 
der the  shadow  of  which  she  climbed  perhaps  a  dozen 
more  of  those  steep  terraces.  Once  more  the  forest 
trees  gave  way  to  an  open  space.  A  wave  of  sweet 
but  over-heavy  perfume  came  to  meet  her.  Pale  in 
the  moonlight  she  saw  the  ghost  of  a  long  white  house. 


in 

A  length  of  white-washed  stoep  supported  on  slen- 
der pillars  faced  her,  and  from  the  stoep  a  flight  of 
wide  steps  descended  to  the  sandy  path  over  which 
she  had  climbed  out  of  the  forest.  There  was  no  fence 
or  boma  to  mark  the  transition  from  the  desert  to  the 
sown;  so  that  the  House  of  the  Moon  was  really  set 
like  any  Waluguru  village  in  a  sudden  clearing  of  the 
forest;  and  this  seemed  strange  to  Eva,  for  she  had 
imagined  that  the  house  of  Godovius  would  be  more 
in  keeping  with  his  wealth  and  power.  She  had  ex- 
pected to  find  a  garden  carefully  tended,  an  oasis  of 
urbanity  and  fragrance.  Fragrance  indeed  there  was. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  81 

The  wave  of  perfume  which  had  met  her  emerging 
from  the  forest  path  eddied  gently  in  the  garden  space 
about  the  open  cups  of  many  moon-pale  blossoms, 
blooms  of  the  white  moon-flower  from  which  the  scent 
named  frangipani  is  distilled:  and  although  she  was 
happily  unaware  of  this  perfume's  associations,  Eva 
felt  that  she  hated  it,  that  its  cloying  sweetness  robbed 
the  air  of  life.  Very  pale  and  ghostly  the  flowers 
hung  there  in  the  faint  moonlight,  in  so  great  a  con- 
gregation that  one  was  aware  of  their  life,  and  thought 
of  them  as  verily  living  creatures,  silent  only  because 
they  were  entranced  with  their  own  sweetness.  In 
the  gloom  of  the  long  verandah  no  light  shone.  The 
windows  within  were  unlighted.  The  long  house 
seemed  as  empty  as  the  building  of  circular  stone 
which  she  had  passed  below. 

Eva  mounted  the  steps.  Over  the  floor  of  white 
stone  a  big  lizard  moved  noiselessly.  There  was  a 
fluttering  sound  in  the  masses  of  bougainvillea  above 
the  porch,  a  clapping  of  wings,  and  a  little  flight  of 
doves  fluttered  out  above  the  moon-flower  blossoms 
and  vanished  into  the  forest.  "This  place  is  full  of 
doves,"  she  thought.  It  was  so  quiet  that  she  began 
to  wonder  if  they  were  the  only  tenants. 

She  remembered  that  in  Africa  people  do  not  wait 
for  an  invitation  to  enter  the  houses  of  their  friends, 
nor  for  servants  to  announce  their  coming.  No  doubt 
Godovius  would  have  expected  her  to  open  the  door 
and  walk  into  the  house,  and  yet  she  hardly  liked  to 
do  this,  for  the  whole  place  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
under  some  spell  which  it  might  be  rash  to  break. 


82  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

For  a  moment  she  stood  waiting  on  the  threshold. 
It  was  a  double  door  massively  made,  with  panels  of 
fine  mosquito  netting  instead  of  glass.  Inside  it  she 
imagined  there  must  be  a  wide  flagged  passage,  smell- 
ing of  damp.  She  saw  that  the  pillars  supporting  the 
lintel  were  of  a  different  kind  of  stone  from  that  of 
which  the  rest  of  the  house  was  built:  they  were 
smooth,  and  their  capitals  were  carved  into  the  shape 
of  the  head  of  some  bird  of  prey  with  hooked  beak 
and  staring  eyes.  While  she  hesitated  she  remem- 
bered the  pitiful  room  of  James,  down  at  the  mission, 
and  the  last  that  she  had  seen  of  James  himself,  ly- 
ing on  his  back,  with  his  mouth  open,  breathing  ster- 
torously,  and  clutching  at  his  head  with  unconscious 
hands  .  .  .  thin,  incapable  hands. 

She  tried  to  open  the  door,  and  found  it  locked. 
So  this  was  the  end  of  her  adventure.  .  .  .  An  end 
so  pathetic  to  the  courage  which  she  had  screwed  up 
that  she  wouldn't  accept  it.  She  beat  upon  the  door 
with  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

A  light  appeared.  Through  the  mosquito  gauze 
she  saw  a  small  figure  approaching,  swathed  in  a 
white  cloth  and  carrying  a  blizzard  lamp.  She  thought 
it  was  that  of  a  child,  but  a  hand  fumbled  with  the 
key  in  the  lock  and  she  saw  that  the  lantern-bearer 
was  an  old  and  shrivelled  woman  who  stared  at  her 
but  did  not  speak. 

Eva  stammered  over  her  Swahili.  Was  this  the 
house  of  Godovius?  .  .  .  Was  the  bwana  in? 

The  old  woman  only  stared. 

Then  she  remembered  the  name  that  she  had  been 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  83 

wanting — Sakharani.  She  repeated  her  question  in 
that  form.  The  old  woman  nodded.  She  opened 
wide  her  mouth  and  pointed  with  her  finger.  Eva 
saw  a  collection  of  hideous  teeth  and  a  purple  stump 
that  once  had  been  a  tongue.  It  was  very  horrible. 
And  then  the  creature  led  her  along  the  passage  and 
pushed  open  the  door  of  a  long,  low  room.  On  the 
open  hearth  a  wood  fire  flickered,  from  which  she 
carried  a  light  to  a  copper  lamp  that  swung  from 
the  ceiling.  When  this  was  done  she  shuffled  out  of 
the  room.  The  hanging  lamp  with  its  reflectors  of 
copper  shed  a  mellow  light,  and  when  Eva's  first  be- 
wilderment was  past  she  began  to  appreciate  the  em- 
bellishments of  Godovius's  room.  It  resembled  no 
room  which  she  had  ever  seen  before:  nor,  for  that 
matter,  was  it  in  the  least  like  what  she  had  imag- 
ined the  room  of  Godovius  would  be.  To  begin  with, 
the  floor  was  covered  with  a  soft  carpet  in  the  pat- 
tern of  which  the  lamplight  illumined  warm  colours. 
On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  an  immense  divan  up- 
holstered in  crimson  lay.  One  of  them  was  half  cov- 
ered with  a  barbarous  kaross  of  leopard  skins,  the 
other  piled  deep  with  cushions  of  silk.  The  door  by 
which  she  had  entered  was  covered  by  a  portiere  of 
heavy  velvet  of  the  same  crimson  colour  with  a  wide 
hem  of  tarnished  gold.  Everywhere  there  were  cush- 
ions, big,  soft  cushions.  And  there  were  no  books. 
The  air  of  the  room  seemed  in  keeping  with  its  furni- 
ture, for  even  here  the  cloying  scent  of  the  moon- 
flowers  had  penetrated.  Eva  had  an  impulse  to  open 
the  window,  or  at  any  rate  to  draw  the  crimson  cur- 


84  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

tains;  but  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  suggested  that 
liberties  must  not  be  taken  with  it.  She  wondered  why 
on  earth  they  had  lit  a  fire.  .  .  . 

By  this  time,  her  eyes  being  more  accustomed  to 
the  mild  light,  she  began  to  regard  the  room  in  greater 
detail.  She  saw  that  the  mantelpiece  above  the  fire- 
place had  been  made  out  of  the  same  smooth  soap- 
stone  which  she  had  noticed  in  the  lintel  of  the  outer 
door,  and  that  the  ends  of  the  beams  were  carved 
with  the  same  conventional  figure  of  a  bird's  head. 
On  the  mantelpiece  itself  stood  other  pieces  of  soap- 
stone  carving:  two  small,  quern-shaped  cylinders 
chased  with  rings  of  rosettes;  three  smaller  and  more 
elementary  versions  of  the  original  bird  pattern.  She 
supposed  that  they  were  curios  of  the  country,  but  was 
rather  puzzled  to  find  the  one  symbol  so  often  re- 
peated. She  decided  that  she  would  ask  James  about 
them.  From  these  she  passed  to  an  examination  of 
the  pictures,  in  heavy  frames  of  gold,  which  deco- 
rated the  walls.  They  were  not  easily  seen;  for  the 
copper  reflector  of  the  hanging  lamp  cast  its  rays 
downwards,  leaving  a  colder  light  for  the  upper  part 
of  the  room.  The  first  that  she  came  to  was  a  paint- 
ing in  oils  of  the  bust  and  shoulders  of  a  Masai  girl, 
her  head  thrown  back,  her  lips  smiling  and  eyes 
closed.  From  her  ears  hung  crescent-shaped  orna- 
ments of  gold,  and  a  big  golden  crescent  was  bound 
across  her  forehead:  a  clever  painting,  with  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  shimmer  of  moonlight  on  her  smooth 
shoulders.  Eva  wondered  why  her  eyes  were  closed, 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  85 

and  why  she  smiled.  Would  Godovius  never 
come?  .  .  . 

On  the  opposite  wall  hung  a  large  framed  photo- 
graph. Eva  stood  on  tiptoe  to  examine  it.  When 
she  saw  what  it  was,  she  was  overwhelmed  with  a 
sudden  and  awful  feeling  of  shame.  She  had  never 
felt  so  ashamed  in  her  life.  She  found  herself  be- 
trayed into  a  funny  childish  gesture :  she  put  her  hands 
to  her  eyes.  "Now  I  can  never  look  at  him  again," 
she  thought.  .  .  .  "Oh,  dear,  how  terrible.  .  .  ." 

But  the  Godovius  of  the  picture  was  obviously  not 
ashamed.  He  was  younger  than  the  Godovius  that 
she  knew :  the  face  smooth  and  unlined,  the  full  lips 
smiling.  In  this  presentation,  despite  the  German  col- 
onial uniform  of  white  duck  which  he  wore,  one  could 
not  help  seeing  that  he  was  of  Jewish  extraction.  One 
hand  clasped  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  the  other  arm  was 
linked  through  that  of  a  woman,  a  white  woman  with 
a  stolid,  eminently  Teuton  face.  And  the  woman  was 
naked  .  .  .  stark  naked.  To  any  English  eyes  the  pho- 
tograph would  have  come  as  a  shock.  And  Eva  was 
a  simple  country  girl,  who  knew  no  more  of  life  than 
the  little  shop  at  Far  Forest  had  shown  her.  She 
couldn't  get  over  it.  She  sat  down  among  the  downy 
cushions  on  the  scarlet  settee  and  blushed.  She 
thought:  "I  must  go.  I  can't  stay  in  this  dreadful 
house.  I  should  die  if  I  met  him  now.  I  can't  .  .  . 
I  can't." 

And  then  she  thought  once  more  of  James. 

Only  it  was  all  so  difficult,  so  horrible,  that  she 
could  have  cried.  Even  as  she  sat  with  her  back  to 


86  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

it  she  was  conscious  of  that  photograph,  of  the  lips 
of  Godovius  and  that  poor  cow-like  creature.  The 
thing  was  subtly  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  room, 
the  soft  carpet  and  the  cushions,  the  lavish  crimson 
and  gold,  the  sickly  scent  of  frangipani.  She  shud- 
dered. In  another  moment  she  would  have  gone  pre- 
cipitately. She  had  even  risen  to  her  feet  when  the 
velvet  portiere  swung  back  and  Godovius  himself  en- 
tered the  room. 

He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand:  "At  last,  Miss 
Eva." 

His  smile  resembled  that  of  the  man  in  the  photo- 
graph ;  his  cheeks  were  flushed ;  he  looked  far  young- 
er than  usual.  She  forced  herself  to  speak. 

"James  is  ill  ...  that  is  why  I  came.  I  can't  un- 
derstand him.  I'm  terribly  distressed." 

"At  any  rate  you  have  come  at  last.  .  .  .  What  is 
your  brother's  trouble?" 

To  Eva  it  was  a  tremendous  relief  to  talk  of  it. 
She  told  him  how  she  had  left  James;  implored  him 
to  let  her  know  if  the  condition  were  serious.  He 
listened,  a  thought  impatiently.  "Quinine?  He  has 
had  plenty  of  quinine?  Then  you  can  do  nothing  more. 
This  cerebral  type  of  malaria  is  not  uncommon.  To- 
morrow it  is  possible  he  will  be  better.  To-mor- 
row .  .  ." 

"Then  you  can't  do  anything?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
can't  you  help  me  at  all  ?" 

"No  .  .  .  there  is  no  other  treatment,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled  you.     I  was  so  dis- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  87 

tressed.     I  must  get  back  quickly.     Perhaps  you  will 
spare  me  one  of  your  boys  to  show  me  the  way." 

"It  was  plucky  of  you  to  come  alone  ...  at  this 
time  of  the  day." 

"There  was  moonlight.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  yes  .  .  .  the  new  moon.  You  are  a  brave 
girl,  Miss  Eva.  Why  then  are  you  frightened  now?" 

"I'm  not  frightened,"  she  cried.  "What  made  you 
think  so?" 

And  of  course  she  was  horribly  frightened.  She 
couldn't  quite  say  why.  On  other  occasions  the  dread 
or  distaste,  or  whatever  the  feeling  might  be,  which 
the  thought  of  him  inspired  had  always  vanished  in 
his  bodily  presence.  This  time  she  felt  it  more  acute- 
ly than  ever,  and  since  it  was  now  reinforced  by  his 
physical  imminence,  it  seemed  harder  to  bear.  It  came 
to  her  suddenly  that  if  he  were  once  assured  that  she 
was  really  frightened  of  him  it  would  be  all  up  with 
her.  That  was  why  she  lied  so  eagerly. 

He  stood  leisurely  surveying  her,  with  the  same 
smile  on  his  flushed  face.  He  took  no  notice  of  her 
denial.  He  was  big  and  dark  and  smiling;  and  all 
the  time  she  was  appallingly  conscious  of  the  contrast 
of  her  own  physical  weakness,  wondering  how,  if  any- 
thing dreadful  should  happen,  she  might  escape.  It 
was  as  bad  as  that.  He  gave  her  an  exaggerated  bow. 

"Very  good,  then.    We  will  agree  that  you  are  not 
frightened.    In  that  case  there  is  really  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  sit  down  and  give  me  the  pleasure,  for 
a  little,  of  your  society.     I  beg  you  to  be  seated." 
She  thought:  "If  I  sit  down  I  sha'n't  have  a  ghost 


88  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

of  a  chance ;  I  shall  feel  he's  right  on  the  top  of  me.  If 
I  don't  sit  down  he'll  know  just  how  frightened  I  am." 
As  a  compromise  she  placed  herself  on  the  arm  of 
the  long  sofa.  At  this  elevation  she  didn't  feel  quite 
so  helpless.  She  made  a  determined  effort  to  escape. 

She  began :  "My  brother  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  yes  .  .  .  your  brother.  .  .  ."  He  began  to 
prowl  up  and  down  the  room.  "Your  brother.  .  .  . 
You  need  not  worry  yourself  too  much  about  him, 
Miss  Eva.  It  is  unkind  of  you  to  be  so  sparing  of 
your  devotion.  Your  brother  is  lonely?  Well,  there 
are  other  people  as  lonely  as  your  brother.  Do  you 
remember  my  saying  that  my  eyes  hadn't  rested  on  a 
white  woman  for  more  than  five  years?  There  are 
varieties  of  loneliness.  Spiritual  loneliness  .  .  ." 

All  the  while  she  was  thinking  of  the  photograph 
on  the  wall  behind  him. 

He  checked  himself.  The  little  flicker  of  passion 
which  had  found  its  way  into  his  speech  and  made  a 
mess  of  the  last  of  his  quite  admirable  English  fell. 
Again  he  became  polite.  She  would  almost  have  pre- 
ferred the  other  manner. 

"But  it  appears  you  are  not  interested,  Miss  Eva. 
At  least  you  will  allow  me  to  treat  you  as  an  ordi- 
nary guest  ...  an  honoured  guest.  You  will  taste 
my  coffee :  perhaps  you  will  even  permit  me  the  pleas- 
ure of  showing  you  my  poor  house.  Visitors  are  so 
rare  ...  so  very  rare.  And  there  was  some  music 
that  I  had  promised  myself  to  play  for  you  .  .  .  the 
tenderest  music  that  the  noble  mind  of  a  man  ever 
made :  Eva's  music. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  89 

And  all  the  time  she  felt  that  he  was  spinning 
words;  that  his  quiet,  caressing  manners  didn't  in  the 
least  represent  what  was  passing  in  the  man's  mind; 
that  he  was  talking  to  gain  time,  and,  while  he  talked, 
forming  some  plan  or  other  which  threatened  her 
peace.  She  had  an  awful  feeling  that  there  was  some- 
thing mad  and  sinister  forming  within  his  mind.  In 
what  other  wise  could  she  explain  the  cool  unreason 
with  which  he  had  almost  ignored  her  appeal  for  help  ? 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  put  the  question  of  James' 
illness  aside  from  the  first  as  something  that  didn't 
really  matter;  as  if  he  wouldn't  accept  it  as  the  rea- 
son for  her  coming.  The  illogical  nature  of  the  thing 
frightened  her.  And  she,  too,  was  not  listening  to 
what  he  said.  She  was  thinking:  "That  woman  in 
the  picture  .  .  .  how  did  she  come  to  be  so  degraded  ? 
What,  in  the  end,  became  of  her?" 

He  went  on  talking  in  the  same  smoothly  persuasive 
tones.  She  didn't  listen  to  him.  She  heard  him  laugh 
softly  in  the  middle  of  what  he  was  saying.  She  won- 
dered if  perhaps  he  were  drunk.  He  came  and  stood 
close  above  her,  putting  his  hand  on  her  upper  arm 
just  below  the  shoulder.  Through  her  cotton  blouse 
she  could  feel  the  heat  of  it.  It  would  have  been  less 
disturbing  if  it  had  been  deadly  cold. 

"You  are  tired,  you  must  rest  a  little,"  he  said.  "I 
would  not  have  you  tired.  You  will  be  quiet  a  little. 
Why  shouldn't  you  sit  down?  The  room  is  not  un- 
comfortable. You  will  wait  while  I  bring  you  some 
hot  coffee.  You  should  know  how  good  my  coffee 
is. 


90  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

He  was  still  holding  her  arm.  The  fingers  of  his 
hand  moved  gently.  She  felt  that  he  was  permitting 
himself  to  caress  it.  She  obeyed  him.  She  let  her- 
self sink  into  the  crimson  cushions  of  the  sofa.  He 
seemed  pleased  with  her  acquiescence.  "I  shall  not 
leave  you  for  long,"  he  said.  "Then  perhaps  I  will 
see  you  home." 

He  was  gone. 

She  could  not  believe  that  he  had  left  her.  Some- 
how she  had  felt  that  she  was  cornered,  that  noth- 
ing but  some  extraordinary  chance  could  save  her  from 
whatever  might  be  the  sequel  of  his  suave,  possessive 
manner.  The  opportunity  of  escape  was  presented  to 
her  so  suddenly  that  she  couldn't  grasp  its  signifi- 
cance. She  sat  there,  on  the  sofa,  as  lacking  in  voli- 
tion as  if  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  place  had  drugged 
her.  If  she  were  not  drugged  or  hallucinated  it  was 
strange  that  Godovius  should  have  left  her.  A  mo- 
ment of  incredible  length  passed.  "If  I  don't  go 
now  ..."  she  thought.  She  lifted  the  heavy  por- 
tiere. In  the  passage  all  was  dank  and  sepulchrally 
quiet.  She  moved  swiftly  towards  the  outer  door.  A 
wave  of  perfume  rose  to  meet  her.  Then  she  found 
herself  running:  the  white  ghost  of  that  low  house 
watching  her  from  behind.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 


r  I  ^  HROUGH  the  garden  of  the  moon-flowers  down 
•*•  those  oblique  paths  which  climbed  the  Sabaean 
terraces  into  the  blackness  of  deep  kloofs  in  which  the 
track  could  only  be  felt.  She  was  too  overwhelmed 
by  one  fear  to  take  count  of  any  others.  In  her  re- 
turn she  quite  forgot  the  anxiety  and  fatigue  which 
had  marked  her  coming  .  .  .  she  had  almost  forgot- 
ten James  and  the  reason  of  her  adventure.  At  length, 
not  knowing  why  she  did  so,  she  stopped.  Careless 
of  what  might  be  beneath  her,  she  sat  down,  press- 
ing her  hands  to  her  beating  temples,  alone  in  the 
middle  of  Africa.  The  sense  of  her  solitariness  came 
over  her  suddenly.  She  felt  like  a  child  who  wakes 
from  a  strange  dream  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
She  had  to  convince  herself  that  it  was  silly  to  have 
been  frightened.  "I  lost  my  head,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "It  was  ridiculous  of  me.  It  doesn't  do  to 
lose  one's  head  out  here.  It's  a  wonder  I  kept  to  the 
road."  She  wished  there  had  been  a  stream  of  water 
near:  one  of  those  little  brooks  which  made  her  own 
land  musical :  for  then  she  would  have  bathed  her  face 
and  pulled  herself  together.  She  felt  that  if  there 
were  any  more  terrors  to  be  faced  she  couldn't  cope 
with  them  in  her  present  dishevelled  condition.  But 


92  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

in  all  that  forest  there  was  no  murmur  of  water  short 
of  the  M'ssente  River,  that  tawny,  sinister  flood  which 
was  many  miles  away,  and  which  in  any  case  she 
dared  not  have  approached  for  fear  of  crocodiles;  so 
she  contented  herself  with  putting  up  her  fallen  hair 
and  wiping  her  face  with  her  handkerchief.  She  only 
hoped  that  while  she  had  been  sitting  down  the  siaphu 
ants  had  not  got  into  her  petticoats.  She  rose  to  her 
feet,  a  little  unsteady,  but  now  immensely  fortified. 
"I  think  I  can  manage  anything  now,"  she  thought. 
So  she  went  on  her  way.  The  forest  was  very  still, 
for  whatever  winds  may  have  been  wandering  under 
the  stars  were  screened  from  her  by  the  interwoven 
tops  of  the  trees.  That  there  were  winds  abroad  she 
guessed,  for  sometimes,  in  the  air  above  her,  she  would 
hear  the  sound  of  a  great  sighing  as  the  forest  stirred 
in  its  sleep.  There  was  one  other  sound  which  trou- 
bled her.  At  first  she  couldn't  be  certain  about  it; 
she  thought  that  her  disturbed  fancy  was  playing  her 
tricks;  but  at  length  she  became  convinced  that  some 
animal  was  moving  through  the  undergrowth  parallel 
with  her  path.  She  stopped  to  listen,  and  all  was 
still.  She  moved  on  again  and  the  faint  rustling  in 
the  leaves  returned.  She  did  this  several  times.  With- 
out doubt  she  was  being  followed.  A  new  pang  of 
terror  assailed  her.  Godovius  .  .  .  supposing  that  he 
had  actually  followed  her.  Even  though  his  presence 
might  be  in  some  sense  a  protection,  she  would  rather 
have  had  anything  than  that.  She  argued  swiftly  with 
herself.  If  it  were  Godovius,  she  thought,  he  would 
not  need  to  slink  through  the  forest  beside  the  track; 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  93 

he  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  coming  into  the  open.  Obvi- 
ously it  couldn't  be  Godovius.  Nor,  for  that  matter, 
could  it  be  an  African,  for,  as  he  had  told  her,  the 
Waluguru  are  frightened  of  the  dark.  She  decided 
that  it  must  be  an  animal.  She  thought  of  the  leopard 
which  Godovius  had  shot;  she  remembered  hunters' 
tales  of  the  wounded  buffalo  which  will  follow  a  man 
for  fifty  miles,  brooding  upon  a  feud  which  must  end 
with  the  death  of  one  of  the  two.  If  it  were  some- 
thing of  that  kind  she  hoped  that  the  end  would  come 
soon.  "I  can't  do  anything!''  she  thought.  "I  must 
just  go  on  as  if  nothing  were  going  to  happen.  But 
it  will  happen.  .  .  ." 

It  happened  suddenly.  A  greater  rustling  disturbed 
a  patch  of  tall  grasses  in  a  patch  of  swampy  ground  a 
little  ahead  of  her,  and  in  the  path  the  figure  of  a,  man 
appeared. 

One  cannot  tamper  with  the  portrait.  Although  it 
was  never  my  luck  to  meet  Hare,  there  must  be  very 
few  among  the  older  settlers  and  hunters  and  adven- 
turers of  equatorial  Africa  who  have  not  known  him : 
a  sinewy,  grave  and  eminently  characteristic  figure 
that  was  always  to  be  found  stalking  through  the 
gloom  of  the  unknown  countries  that  have  opened  be- 
fore the  successive  waves  of  occupation  from  the 
south.  The  men  who  went  to  Rhodesia  in  1890  trod 
in  his  footsteps.  With  the  Jameson  raiders  he  lay  in 
Pretoria  jail.  When  the  Uganda  Railway  was  strug- 
gling upwards  through  the  thorn-bush  about  Tsavo  he 
was  shooting  lions  in  the  rolling  country  above  the 
Athi  Plains  which  is  now  Nairobi  hill.  Everybody  in 


94  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

central  Africa  knew  him,  not  merely  the  English,  but 
the  Belgians,  the  Germans,  the  Portuguese,  all  of  them, 
from  the  Zambesi  to  the  Lorian  Swamp.  Everybody 
knew  the  face  of  Hare,  everybody  knew  his  fame  as 
a  shikari.  And  that  was  all;  for  his  soul  was  as 
lonely  as  the  solitudes  into  which  he  had  so  often  been 
the  first  to  penetrate.  You  may  carry  the  simile  a 
little  further:  it  was  of  the  same  simplicity  and  pa- 
tience and  courage,  if  a  country  may  be  said  to  pos- 
sess these  attributes  of  a  soul,  and  there  are  some 
people  who  think  it  can.  In  this  solitude  I  have  known 
of  only  one  adventurer :  and  that  was  Eva  Burwarton. 
Perhaps  there  had  been  one  other  many  years  before. 
I  don't  know.  At  least  Hare,  that  figure  of  tragedy, 
was  fortunate  in  this.  And  it  was  thus  they  met. 
You  are  not  to  imagine  the  figure  of  which  the  East 
African  settler  will  tell  you  over  his  sundowner  in  the 
New  Stanley.  What  Eva  Burwarton  saw  upon  this 
strange  occasion  was  a  thin  brown  man,  a  scarecrow 
in  the  dark  wood  path,  and  liker  to  a  scarecrow  be- 
cause of  his  arms.  The  sleeve  of  one  was  empty :  the 
other  swung  helplessly  at  his  side  in  spite  of  the  strips 
of  drab  cotton  which  he  had  torn  from  his  shirt  to 
keep  it  steady.  All  his  clothes  were  torn:  his  beard 
red  with  the  dust  of  Africa :  his  lips  and  eyelids  black 
with  the  same  dust  caked  and  encrusted:  the  skin  of 
face  and  brow  of  the  colour  of  red  ochre.  The  black- 
ened dust  on  lips  and  eylids  relieved  the  brightness 
of  his  teeth  and  eyes.  He  was  a  figure  at  the  same 
time  savage  and  bizarre,  and  as  he  staggered  into  the 
path  he  addressed  her,  as  well  as  his  parched  tongue 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  95 

would  let  him,  in  a  ridiculous  attempt  at  German.  He 
spoke  as  though  he  were  drunk  or  raving.  No  wonder 
that  she  shuddered. 

"Ich  .  .  .  Ich  .  .  ."  he  said.  "O  .  .  .  nicht  .  .  . 
frightened  sei.  Wasser.  Will  nicht  leiden.  Helf  mir. 
Verstehn?" 

She  hadn't  tumbled  to  it  that  he  was  English,  as 
anyone  might  have  done  who  knew  German.  Bril- 
liantly she  stumbled  into  Swahili. 

"Wataka  maji.  .  .  .  Water.  Oh,  his  arm's  broken. 
Do  lie  down  .  .  .  you'll  fall." 

And  he  fell  in  the  path  at  her  feet.  A  minute  later 
he  smiled  up  at  her.  "You're  English  ?"  he  said.  "My 
apologies.  I'm  sorry  to  have  frightened  you."  He 
still  spoke  thickly. 

"You  were  speaking  German  to  me?  But  you  are 
English  yourself.  .  .  ." 

He  said :  "A  Scotsman."  For  a  moment  he  could 
say  no  more,  and  all  the  time  Eva  was  realising  what 
a  pitiable  creature  he  was,  with  his  torn,  dusty  face, 
his  empty  left  sleeve  and  the  other  dangling  arm.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  this  alarming  introduction  had  come 
as  a  reassurance  to  both  of  them. 

At  last  he  spoke :  "First  of  all,  if  you  don't  mind, 
water.  I've  had  none  for  .  .  .  it's  difficult  to  remem- 
ber. The  arm  was  ten  days  ago.  If  you  can  get  a 
little  .  .  .  water"  (it  came  out  like  that)  "I  can  man- 
age. You  can  put  it  in  my  hat." 

Now  all  her  nervousness  had  gone.  The  forest, 
which  had  been  a  horror,  became  suddenly  quite 
friendly.  She  took  his  greasy  hat  and  walked  away 


96  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

into  the  darkness;  and  in  one  of  those  poisonous 
creeks  of  the  swamp  she  filled  it  with  water  that  was 
as  thick  as  coffee.  On  her  return  the  black  mouth 
greeted  her  with  a  smile  that  was  altogether  charming. 
But  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  see  him  drink  the; 
filthy  stuff.  "You  could  feel,"  she  said,  "the  dryness  of 
his  throat."  He  must  have  seen,  for  all  the  darkness, 
the  pity  in  her  eyes,  for  he  hastened  to  explain  that 
matters  weren't  nearly  as  bad  as  they  might  have  been. 
"The  arm,"  he  said,  "is  nothing,  a  piece  of  bad  luck. 
Time  will  mend  it.  But  unless  you  are  in  some  way 
a  prodigy  it  is  something  of  a  handicap  to  have  to 
do  without  hands."  Although  the  position  had  been 
desperately  serious,  and  he  wasn't  much  of  a  hand 
at  joking,  he  wanted  to  make  a  joke  of  it  He  didn't 
know  much  about  women  .  .  .  that  sort  of  woman  at 
any  rate;  and  this  made  him  unusually  anxious  to  be 
gentle  with  her.  Besides,  a  man  who  is  on  the  point 
of  dying  with  thirst  in  the  middle  of  Africa  at  night 
does  not  expect  to  fall  in  with  a  woman  walking  hat- 
less  and  unarmed.  He  knew  that  something  unusual 
was  doing ;  he  knew  that  she  too  was  in  trouble.  And 
obviously  he  was  going  to  help  her.  In  the  middle  of 
Africa  people  help  one  another  without  asking  ques- 
tions: in  their  relations  there  appears  a  certain  deli- 
cacy which  sits  particularly  well  on  such  a  villainous- 
looking  person  as  Hare  was  then.  So  he  asked  her 
nothing  of  herself.  In  a  moment  or  two,  his  strength 
reviving,  according  to  its  obstinate  wont,  like  that  of 
a  cut  flower  that  had  been  given  water,  he  sat  up  in 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  97 

the  path.  She  glowed  to  see  him  better;  two  sick 
men  would  have  been  rather  a  large  order. 

"This  is  the  M'ssente  Swamp?"  he  asked  at  length. 

She  answered :  "Yes." 

"And  the  M'ssente  runs  into  the  Ruwu.  Yes.  .  .  . 
We're  about  a  hundred  miles  from  the  railway.  Up 
above  there  are  rubber  plantations.  Yours,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

She  told  him  that  they  belonged  to  a  German,  Godo- 
vious. 

"Godovius?" 

She  tried  "Sakharani." 

"Now  I  have  it,"  he  said  slowly.  "Of  course.  A 
Jew.  I  know  all  about  Mr.  Godovius  .  .  .  I've  heard 
from  the  Masai.  Sakharani.  .  .  .  Yes.  And  you  are 
living  on  his  estate  ?" 

She  denied  it  hastily.  There  was  a  hint  of  pity  in 
his  question.  All  the  time  she  was  conscious  of  the 
scrutiny  of  his  eyes  from  within  their  dark  circles. 
She  told  him  that  she  came  from  the  Luguru  mis- 
sion, a  mile  or  two  away,  and  that  her  brother  was 
there.  She  told  him  their  name. 

He  said:  "A  minister?"  as  though  he  were  uncer- 
tain whether  the  information  suited  his  plans.  It  was 
ludicrous  that  a  man  in  this  extremity  should  pick  and 
choose  his  host. 

There  followed  a  long  silence.     At  last  he  spoke: 

"Now  I  think  I  can  manage.  I  mean  I  think  I  can 
walk  as  far  as  the  mission.  But  I  want  to  put  the 
case  to  you,  Miss  Burwarton,  for  it's  possible  under 
the  circumstances  that  you  won't  like  me  to  come." 


98  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"Whatever  the  circumstances  were,"  she  said,  "I 
couldn't  let  you  go."  She  meant  that  ordinary  hu- 
manity wouldn't  let  her  turn  him  away ;  but  I  suspect 
that  she  was  clutching  also  at  the  shadow  of  a  strong 
man  in  him,  because  his  gentleness  had  shown  her  al- 
ready that  he  could  help  her.  She  could  not  have 
abandoned  him  if  only  for  that  reason. 

"Well,  don't  be  hasty  .  .  .  you  shall  judge,"  he 
said.  "I'll  be  perfectly  frank  with  you  and  I  shall 
expect  you  to  be  the  same  with  me.  My  name  is  Hare. 
If  you  had  been  longer  in  this  country  you'd  have 
heard  of  me ;  and  you  wouldn't  have  heard  much  good. 
A  fellow  who  makes  his  living  as  I  do  is  not  usually 
an  exemplary  person.  No  doubt  a  lady  would  be 
shocked  by  my  way  of  living.  I  don't  know  any,  so 
that  is  no  odds  to  me.  When  your  neighbour  Godo- 
vius  hears  that  I  was  here,  and  probably  he  will  hear 
sooner  or  later,  I  shall  find  myself  clapped  into  jail 
at  Dar-es-Salaam.  If  only  I  had  the  use  of  my  hands 
I  could  get  out  of  this  country.  In  B.  E.  A.  they 
know  me  well  enough.  And  I'm  not  "wanted"  for 
anything  I'm  more  than  usually  ashamed  of.  It's 
ivory  poaching.  I've  never  been  a  great  believer  in 
any  game  laws:  and  particularly  German  ones.  But 
I  realise  that  I'm  done  .  .  .  more  or  less.  There  are 
only  two  alternatives:  to  shelter  with  you  at  Luguru 
and  fight  it  out,  or  to  throw  in  my  hand  on  Godovius's 
doorstep.  In  either  case  I  sha'n't  starve :  but  the  Ger- 
mans have  a  long  score  to  settle  with  me,  and  I  doubt 
if  they'll  kill  any  fatted  calves  when  they  get  me.  The 
other  is  a  fair  sporting  chance.  If  your  brother  can 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  99 

find  it  in  accordance  with  his  conscience  to  aid  and 
abet  a  felon.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  that's  all." 

But  already  she  was  convinced  that  the  felon  was 
a  man  that  she  could  trust.  I  think  she  would  have 
trusted  him  if  the  crimes  to  which  he  had  confessed 
had  included  a  murder.  "Whatever  it  had  been,"  she 
said,  "I  couldn't  have  thrown  him  over.  It  was  so 
pathetic  to  see  such  a  strong,  hard  man  as  that  abso- 
lutely beaten.  It  wouldn't  have  been  fair.  And  I 
felt  ...  I  knew  .  .  .  that  he  had  been  somehow  sent 
to  help  me."  (She  wasn't  ashamed  of  the  words.) 
"Even  then  I  knew  it." 

Perhaps  she  did.  I  think  most  of  the  things  which 
Eva  Burwarton  did  were  dictated  to  her  by  instinct 
rather  than  reason  :  but  there  was  another  factor  which 
she  possibly  discounted,  or  did  not  realise,  and  this 
was  the  knowledge  that  this  man  too  was  an  enemy  of 
Godovius.  It  struck  her  that  they  were  both  in  the 
same  boat. 

As  for  James  .  .  .  whatever  James  might  think — 
and  it  was  quite  possible  that  he  wouldn't  countenance 
the  protection  of  a  man  who  was  "wanted"  by  the 
German  authorities  as  a  matter  of  principle,  if  not 
for  the  protection  of  the  mission's  name — whatever 
James  might  think,  she  had  determined  to  take  this 
man  and  to  hide  him.  After  what  had  happened  that 
night  she  felt  that  she  couldn't  take  any  risks  of  being 
left  alone  to  deal  with  Godovius.  For  all  she  knew, 
James  might  be  dead  by  the  time  she  returned;  and 
the  mere  presence  of  another  man  of  kindred  race  had 
made  her  a  little  easier.  It  is  in  the  way  of  a  compli- 


loo  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ment  to  our  race  that  she  had  so  quickly  decided  that 
she  could  trust  a  gaunt  and  battered  wreck  of  an  ad- 
venturer— for  that  is  what  it  came  to — just  because 
he  was  British.  She  clung  to  the  happy  chance  of 
their  meeting  as  if  it  were  indeed  her  salvation.  And 
she  wanted  from  the  first  to  tell  him  all  her  story, 
as  a  child  might  do  to  any  stranger  who  sympathised 
with  its  loneliness.  That  was  why  she  couldn't  an- 
swer him  at  first.  She  didn't  know  where  to  begin. 

He  mistook  the  causes  of  her  hesitation.  "Very 
well  then,"  he  said.  "I  quite  understand.  I  can  shift 
for  myself.  And  I  am  grateful  for  your  kindness. 
I  had  no  right  to  ask  for  more." 

For  answer  she  burst  into  tears.  That  was  what 
she  had  been  waiting  for  all  the  time  since  she  had 
run  out  of  Godovius's  room,  and  the  sudden  sense  of 
relief  which  his  presence  implied  quite  overwhelmed 
her.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  crying;  but  she  couldn't 
help  it.  Through  her  tears  she  saw  the  ragged  figure 
of  Hare,  squatting  in  the  dark  path  and  infinitely  more 
embarrassed  by  this  storm  of  feeling  than  herself. 
Indeed  it  was  a  strange  setting  for  their  first  meet- 
ing. Under  the  same  atmosphere  of  stress,  within 
the  same  utter  solitudes  these  two  met  and  parted.  In 
after  time  Eva  always  remembered  this  moment  with 
a  peculiar  tenderness.  Perhaps  Hare  remembers  too. 

At  last  she  dried  her  tears. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  she  said.  "Are  you  sure  you 
can  manage  two  miles?  ...  I  don't  think  it  can  be 
more.  We  will  go  slowly.  And  I  will  take  your 
rifle." 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  101 

And  though  he  protested,  partly  because  he  would 
not  have  her  burdened,  and  partly  because  it  offended 
his  instinct  to  be  for  a  moment  unarmed,  she  slipped 
the  strap  of  the  Mannlicher  from  his  shoulders,  guid- 
ing it  gently  over  his  helpless  right  arm.  Her  tears 
had  so  steadied  her  that  she  acted  without  any  hesi- 
tation. It  is  not  strange  that  Hare  wondered  at  her. 


II 

When  she  thought  about  it  in  after  times  it  often 
struck  her  as  strange  that  she  found  herself  equipped 
with  a  regular  plan  of  concealment  for  the  stranger. 
"I  had  never  had  to  hide  anything  before  in  my  life," 
she  said,  "and  yet  long  before  we  got  to  the  mission 
I  knew  exactly  where  I  should  have  to  put  him:  I'd 
even  thought  about  his  food,  and  bandages  for  his 
poor  arm,  and  water  for  him  to  wash  in.  It  was 
funny :  it  all  came  to  me  naturally.  I  suppose  conceal- 
ment and  scheming  of  that  kind  are  more  natural  to 
a  woman  than  to  a  man.  I  couldn't  ever  have  believed 
that  I  was  so  deceitful." 

Of  those  first  strange  days  she  would  always  speak 
without  reserve.  I  suppose  that  it  is  always  a  happi- 
ness for  people  to  remember  the  beginnings  of  a  re- 
lationship of  that  kind :  and  to  have  mothered  a  man 
who  was  so  utterly  helpless  as  Hare  in  secret,  and  to 
have  shielded  him  from  a  positive  danger,  brought 
into  her  life  a  spice  of  romance  which  was  hardly  to 
be  found  in  her  daily  endeavours  to  preserve  the  con- 
stitution of  James  from  the  menace  of  draughts  or 


102  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

damp  sheets.  In  those  days  she  was  very  happy,  and, 
above  all,  never  lonely.  Apart  from  any  other  appeal, 
the  situation  aroused  her  imagination.  In  this  most 
serious  business  she  was  playing,  just  as  she  had 
played  at  houses  when  she  was  quite  a  little  girl.  And 
I  am  certain  that  she  never  once  thought  of  the  possi- 
bility of  a  passion  more  profound  arising  from  her 
play. 

It  was  in  the  inner  chamber  of  her  little  banda  in 
the  garden  that  she  had  decided  to  place  Hare.  She 
felt  that  here,  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Bullace's  whisky 
bottles,  he  would  be  reasonably  safe;  for  the  outer 
of  the  two  rooms  had  always  been  sacred  to  her,  and 
even  the  boy  Hamisi  never  entered  it.  She  knew  that 
she  could  feed  him  there.  In  that  country  food  need 
never  be  a  serious  problem,  and  after  sunset  she  could 
always  be  sure  of  freedom  from  observation.  If  once 
she  could  make  Hare  comfortable  she  felt  sure  that 
all  would  be  well.  That  night,  indeed,  she  left  him 
alone  with  a  gourd  full  of  milk  and  a  plate  of  mealie 
meal  porridge.  He  begged  her  not  to  worry  about  him, 
saying  that  he  had  often  slept  in  rougher  places  than 
this.  With  his  clasp-knife  she  unfastened  two  of  the 
bales  of  sisal  fibre,  which  she  spread  upon  the  floor 
for  bedding.  A  third  bale  of  the  white  silky  stuff 
served  him  for  pillow.  He  assured  her  that  he  wanted 
no  more  ...  or  rather  only  one  thing  more:  the 
loaded  rifle  which  she  had  been  carrying  and  which 
he  could  not  bear  to  sleep  without.  "You  could  not 
use  it  without  any  hands,"  she  said,  smiling.  "I  must 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  103 

have  it,"  he  said ;  "you  do  not  know  how  undefended 
I  am."  And  she  laid  it  by  his  side. 

Returning  to  the  house,  she  found  the  boy  Onyango 
sleeping  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  James's  bed,  and 
James  too  sleeping  so  quietly  and  with  such  gently 
stirring  breath  that  she  began  to  wonder  why  she  had 
ever  been  frightened  or  embarked  on  her  amazing  ex- 
pedition to  the  house  of  Godovius.  She  saw  now  that 
Godovius  had  been  right  when  he  had  said  that  there 
was  nothing  to  worry  about,  that  nothing  terrible 
would  have  happened  if  she  had  stayed  at  home  and 
never  suffered  any  of  the  nightmare  from  which  she 
was  just  emerging.  The  stark  reality  of  that  little 
room,  the  figures  of  the  two  sleepers,  the  symbolical 
pictures  and  texts  on  the  walls,  the  glass  of  milk  at 
James's  bedside,  recalled  her  with  a  variety  of  appeals 
to  a  normal  world  untroubled  by  vast  emotional  ex- 
perience, and  the  shadow  of  the  other  world  huge  and 
fantastic  faded  from  her  mind  until  there  was  only 
one  vestige  of  it  left :  the  vision  of  a  gaunt  man  with 
an  empty  sleeve  and  another  broken  arm  lying  asleep 
on  the  sisal  in  Mr.  Bullace's  banda.  It  was  just  as 
though  this  fragment  of  a  dream  had  materialised  and 
become  fantastically  embodied  in  the  texture  of  com- 
mon life. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  she  suddenly  realised  that 
for  some  moments  her  eyes  had  been  interested  in 
watching  a  big  black  Culex  mosquito  which  had 
swooped  down  from  the  white  mosquito-net  upon  the 
transparent  arm  which  James  in  his  restlessness  had 
slipped  beneath  its  edge.  And  this  awakened  her. 


104  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

She  roused  the  faithless  watchman  Onyango  and  sent 
him  back  to  his  shed.  Then  she  tenderly  replaced  that 
pitiable  arm  of  James  beneath  the  shelter  of  his  net. 
The  slight  movement  roused  him.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  stared  at  her  lazily,  without  speaking.  She 
became  suddenly  conscious  of  her  own  appearance. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  all  her  night's  experience,  even 
the  secret  of  Hare's  concealment,  must  be  written  in 
her  face.  But  the  wondering  eyes  of  James  saw  noth- 
ing. He,  too,  was  returning  from  a  strange  land. 

At  last  he  spoke :  "Is  it  night,  Eva  ?" 

She  told  him  "Yes";  she  didn't  want  him  to  look 
at  her  like  that,  and  so  with  her  hand  she  smoothed 
back  the  lank  hair  from  his  brow. 

"I  think  I  have  been  dreaming,"  he  said.  And 
then,  again:  "What  day  is  it?" 

She  had  to  consider  before  she  answered  him.  "It's 
.  .  .  it's  Saturday  morning." 

"Saturday  .  .  .  Saturday.  .  .  .  To-morrow  will  be 
'  Sunday.  I  don't  know.  ...  I  seem  to  have  missed 
two  days.  I  don't  understand.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  try  to  understand  now,"  she  begged  him. 

He  was  wonderfully  mild.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "I 
won't  try  to  understand.  It  does  hurt  rather.  I'm 
awfully  thirsty  too.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
dream.  A  peculiar  dream." 

She  gave  him  a  cupful  of  milk,  which  he  drank 
eagerly. 

"Saturday  morning,"  he  said.  "And  Sunday  to- 
morrow. That  means  that  I  shall  have  to  be  better 
by  then.  But  to  have  dropped  two  days,  two  whole 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  105 

days.  Where  have  I  been  during  those  two  days?" 
Literally,  as  one  answers  a  child  without  thinking, 
she  told  him  that  he  had  been  in  that  room  and  on  that 
bed;  and,  curiously  enough,  her  answer  seemed  to 
satisfy  him.  Then  suddenly  he  started  to  laugh  in 
a  feeble,  helpless  way. 

"My  dream,"  he  said,  "while  I  remember  it;  for 
you  were  in  it;  we  were  both  of  us  in  it."  He  told 
her  how  he  had  dreamed  that  they  were  walking 
together  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  country  to  the 
west  of  Far  Forest.  A  beautiful  day,  and  they  were 
going  hand  in  hand,  as  they  used  to  do  when  they 
were  children.  The  road  along  which  they  moved 
was  a  grass-grown  track  which  had  once  been  used 
by  the  Romans.  That  afternoon  it  was  full  of  peo- 
ple; but  all  the  people  were  moving  in  the  opposite 
direction,  so  that  at  last  he  had  begun  to  think  that 
they  were  going  the  wrong  way.  So  he  had  stopped 
an  old  man  with  a  white  beard  who  was  running  back 
as  hard  as  he  could  go,  and  asked  him  if  they  were 
on  the  right  road.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "you  are  on  the 
right  road.  But  can  you  guess  what  the  end  will  be?" 
Then  suddenly,  as  he  caught  sight  of  James's  face, 
he  had  made  a  gesture  of  terror  and  rushed  away. 
James  would  have  stopped  others  of  that  running 
stream  of  people,  but  as  soon  as  they  saw  him  they 
covered  their  eyes  and  ran.  "And  although  they 
were  sometimes  near  enough  to  brush  us  as  they 
passed,"  he  said,  "it  was  just  as  if  the  whole  thing 
were  going  on  many  miles  away,  and  we  were  watch- 
ing them  from  a  distance:  just  as  if  they  were  in  a 


io6  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

different  world  or  in  a  different  patch  of  time."  At 
last  they  had  come  to  a  little  crest  (Eva  knew  it  well) 
where  the  green  lane  falls  to  a  valley  through  the  slant 
of  a  grove  of  beeches.  All  the  time  the  moving 
stream  of  people  with  averted  faces  never  ceased,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  where,  in  reality,  the  grass 
lane  cuts  down  beside  a  stream  into  a  piece  of  wood- 
land, a  sudden  change  came  over  the  scene.  It  was 
night.  People  were  brushing  past  them  in  the  dark- 
ness. And  instead  of  Shropshire  it  was  Africa;  he 
could  have  been  sure  of  that  from  the  peculiar  aro- 
matic odour  of  brushwood  in  the  air.  Between  the 
branches  of  the  trees  above  the  stream  a  new  moon 
was  shining:  an  African  moon  all  the  wrong  way 
round.  Perhaps  Eva  had  never  noticed  that  the  moon 
was  the  wrong  way  round  in  Africa?  A  man  whis- 
pered as  he  passed  them :  "Hurry  up,  or  you'll  be  too 
late  for  the  end."  They  hurried  on.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  wood  but  a  crooning  of  pigeons.  In  a 
clearing  there  stood  a  little  church  of  galvanised  iron 
of  the  same  shape  and  size  as  the  mission  church  at 
Luguru.  However  it  had  got  there  James  could  not 
imagine.  It  never  used  to  be  there.  From  the  narrow 
doors  of  this  church  people  were  pouring  in  a  steady 
stream  like  the  sand  in  an  egg-boiler.  Both  he  and 
Eva  were  hot  and  tired,  but  they  pressed  on :  for  they 
felt  that  after  all  they  might  not  be  in  time :  and  when 
they  came  to  the  door  the  stream  of  people,  who  cov- 
ered their  eyes,  divided  on  either  side  of  them,  so  that 
they  could  easily  have  entered.  "But  I  couldn't  get 
you  to  go  in,"  said  James.  "You  told  me  that  you 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  107 

couldn't  bear  to  look  at  it.  So  I  went  in  myself.  A 
funny  thing:  the  church  smelt  of  Africans;  it  smelt 
like  a  Waluguru  hut.  And  it  was  empty.  Except  for 
one  man.  And  he  was  a  European  in  black  clothes 
— I  couldn't  see  his  face,  for  his  head  lolled  over. 
He  was  stretched  out  on  the  front  of  the  pulpit,  hung 
there  with  big  nails  through  his  hands.  I  called  to 
you;  but  as  I  shouted  it  went  dark.  I've  never 
had  a  dream  like  that  before.  It  isn't  like  me  to 
dream.  What  tricks  fever  will  play  with  a  man !" 

All  the  time  she  had  scarcely  been  listening  to  him. 
"I  don't  think  you'll  dream  again,"  she  said.  She 
knew  that  this  sort  of  extravagance  was  not  good  for 
James.  Still,  it  was  better  that  he  should  be  talking 
excited  rubbish  than  lying  there  unconscious.  She 
tried  to  make  him  comfortable  with  a  sponge  wrung 
out  in  water  and  eau-de-Cologne.  While  she  was 
sponging  him  he  still  wanted  to  go  on  talking;  but 
she  knew  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  encourage  him, 
and  a  little  later  he  fell  asleep. 

She  left  him:  tired  as  she  was,  she  knew  that  it 
was  no  use  trying  to  sleep  herself.  She  went  out 
on  to  the  stoep  and  sat  there  in  faint  moonlight  under 
the  watery  sky.  The  night  was  chilly  and  she  wrapped 
herself  in  a  blanket,  and  sat  there,  thinking  of  that 
strange  night  and  of  the  doubtful  future  until  the  black 
sky  grew  grey  and  birds  began  to  sing  in  some  faint 
emulation  of  the  chorus  of  temperate  dawns.  She 
listened  to  them  for  a  little  while,  and  then,  sighing, 
with  fatigue,  but  strangely  happy,  went  into  the  house. 


io8  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

She  could  not  tell  how  long  she  had  sat  there.  It 
must  have  been  several  hours  at  least,  for  a  heavy  dew 
had  drenched  the  blanket  which  she  had  wrapped 
round  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 


OW  it  was  far  too  light  for  her  to  think  of  sleep, 
and  so  she  went  into  the  house  to  change  her 
clothes  and  to  make  herself  clean.  When  she  saw  her 
own  reflection  in  the  little  mirror  she  was  shocked, 
for  it  seemed  to  her  a  strange  thing  that  she  should 
have  passed  through  so  many  hours  of  intense  experi- 
ence and  show  so  little  for  it.  Her  blouse  was  torn 
and  her  skirt  caked  with  black  mud,  but  that  was  all. 
She  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  she  had  found 
that  her  hair  had  turned  white.  But  it  hadn't:  only, 
when  she  took  it  down,  she  was  puzzled  for  a  moment 
by  an  unfamiliar  perfume  which  seemed  to  have  been 
imprisoned  in  its  folds.  She  shuddered,  realising  all 
at  once  that  it  was  the  scent  of  Godovius's  room.  But 
when  she  had  bathed  and  changed  her  clothes  and 
stepped  out  into  the  summery  sunshine  of  early  morn- 
ing she  felt  as  though  she  had  really  managed  to  wash 
that  damnable  atmosphere  away.  There  wasn't  really 
a  vestige  of  it  left.  She  just  felt  a  little  light-headed 
and  nervous,  as  if  her  legs  didn't  quite  belong  to  her. 
But  she  did  realise  that  she  had  got  her  hands  full. 

In  the  first  place,  James.  Several  times  she  passed 
in  and  out  of  his  room.  He  was  still  sleeping  peace- 
fully, and  she  did  not  disturb  him;  but  somewhere 

109 


no  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

about  nine  o'clock,  when  she  had  breakfasted,  she 
found  that  he  had  wakened.  He  was  lying  on  his  back 
with  his  arms  folded  in  front  of  his  chest  and  his 
eyes  wide  open.  He  smiled  at  her. 

"I  think  I'm  all  right  now,"  he  said.  "It's  been 
a  funny  time." 

She  was  unfeignedly  thankful.  She  washed  him 
tenderly,  and  from  time  to  time  he  asked  her  short 
questions  which  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  evade  for 
fear  of  exciting  him.  And  he  was  easily  satisfied. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  been  up  all  night  with  me,"  he 
said.  "It  was  a  strange  night.  Did  I  talk  to  you  in 
the  night?  I  seem  to  remember.  .  .  ." 

"You  told  me  a  silly  nightmare,"  she  said,  "that 
was  all.  You  had  been  dreaming." 

He  laughed  softly.  "I'm  always  dreaming.  Even 
when  I'm  awake.  I  don't  remember  anything  about 
it.  Everything  at  Luguru  is  like  a  dream." 

And  so  she  left  him  for  a  little.  She  had  begun 
to  wonder  about  her  hidden  guest.  Now  for  the  first 
time,  in  broad  daylight,  and  removed  from  all  the 
romantic  circumstances  of  the  night  before,  she  real- 
ised the  results  of  her  hospitality.  The  possibilities 
were  frightening.  A  law-abiding  citizen,  she  was 
sheltering  a  felon;  a  modest  young  woman,  she  was 
hiding  a  strange  man  of  whom  she  knew  nothing  at 
all.  But  there  was  no  running  away  from  it.  She 
had  taken  on  the  job  and  must  see  it  through.  That 
was  the  way  in  which  she  looked  at  it,  even  in  the 
face  of  a  considerable  anxiety.  It  struck  her  as 
strange  that  she  hadn't  for  a  moment  counted  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  111 

cost  the  night  before.  She  smiled  at  herself,  a  little 
indulgently.  "I  always  do  things  like  that  and  think 
about  them  afterwards,"  she  thought. 

Meanwhile  she  had  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for 
in  the  recovery  of  James.  Freed  of  this  anxiety,  she 
was  far  more  capable  of  tackling  the  problem  which 
Hare  presented.  Godovius  was  her  other  concern, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  providential  that  things  had  really 
come  to  a  head  at  Njumba  ja  Mweze  that  night,  for 
after  what  had  happened  there  he  couldn't  very  well 
pursue  his  attentions.  She  was  thinking  all  the  time 
of  Godovius  as  a  possible  threat  to  her  two  proteges. 
For  the  sake  of  both  of  them  it  was  essential  that  he 
should  be  kept  away  from  Luguru.  Nothing  could 
have  happened  better.  Now  he  couldn't  have  the  face 
to  come.  That  was  all  she  knew  about  Godovius. 

In  this  way,  scheming  for  his  protection,  search- 
ing for  every  probable  contingency  which  might 
threaten  his  safety,  and  arming  herself  against  them 
with  an  unusual  caution,  she  came  to  Mr.  Bullace's 
banda.  It  was  now  midday  and  very  hot.  Close  to 
the  banda,  dangerously  close,  the  sliamba  boys  were 
cutting  down  the  poles  on  which  the  sisal  spires  had 
withered.  They  hacked  at  the  pulpy  poles  with  iron 
pangas,  and  sang  to  each  other  a  queer  antiphonal  song 
which  had  lightened  the  labours  of  black  men  cutting 
wood  for  untold  generations.  Hamisi  had  climbed 
up  the  pole,  and  when  the  trunk  was  nearly  severed 
he  swung  himself  to  and  fro  until  the  whole  thing  top- 
pled over  with  a  tearing  sound.  When  the  pole  fell 
they  shouted  to  one  another  and  laughed;  and  one 


112  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

of  them,  a  naked  M'luguru  who  had  sat  in  the  garden 
path  busily  excavating  a  jigger  from  his  toe,  looked 
up  and  laughed  too,  as  though  the  occasion  were  one 
for  universal  happiness.  He  was  an  ugly  creature 
with  shining  cicatrices  on  either  cheek  and  porcupine 
quills  which  he  had  picked  up  stuck  through  his  hair, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  done  with  his  surgery  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  lolled  up  against  the  side  of 
the  banda. 

It  suddenly  came  to  Eva  that  only  the  thin  grass 
wall  of  the  banda  now  separated  him  from  the  place 
where  Hare  was  lying.  Already  her  secret  seemed 
on  the  point  of  being  discovered.  She  remembered 
hearing  Godovius  tell  her  brother  one  day  that  the 
Waluguru,  in  common  with  other  African  races,  could 
detect  the  presence  of  a  white  man  by  his  smell.  She 
was  so  frightened  that  she  hurried  to  the  side  of  the 
banda  and  pulled  the  lounging  Luguru  away.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  handled  a  na- 
tive roughly.  The  others,  standing  idle  in  their  dirty 
red  blankets,  laughed.  She  felt  that  they  were  jeer- 
ing at  her;  but  if  she  had  laid  open  their  comrade's 
back  with  the  cut  of  a  kiboko  they  would  have  laughed 
in  the  same  way.  She  called  Hamisi,  and  told  him 
to  see  to  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  first.  He  said : 
"N'dio,  Bibi,"  and  smiled.  She  hated  all  their  smil- 
ing. He  was  smiling,  she  thought,  at  her  secret 
Probably  they  all  knew  it  by  now.  Soon  Godovius 
would  know.  .  .  . 

The  boys  moved  off  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden 
and  still  she  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  banda  think- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  113 

ing.  Around  her  the  lazy  life  of  the  morning  stirred. 
Among  the  aromatic  herbs  which  had  invaded  that 
neglected  garden  with  their  ashen  foliage  and  clus- 
tered flowers,  purple  and  cinnabar,  the  restless  but- 
terflies of  Africa  hovered  in  mazy  flight.  Most  of 
them  were  small  and  barred  with  cinnabar,  like  the 
little  orange  tips  which  brightened  the  Shropshire 
lanes  in  spring.  A  green  lizard  moved  as  quietly  as 
a  shadow  at  her  feet.  Through  the  green  curtain  of 
acacia  a  flight  of  honey-suckers  passed  with  a  whir 
of  wings.  She  hated  all  this  busy,  mocking  life,  this 
land  that  smiled  eternally  and  was  eternally  cruel. 
She  felt  that  she  had  no  part  in  it.  It  was  all  wrong. 

She  went  into  her  banda  and  tapped  at  the  parti- 
tion. Hare  answered  her  in  a  whisper.  He  said  that 
he  was  quite  comfortable.  He  had  slept  and  was  not 
hungry.  All  that  morning  he  had  lain  listening  to 
the  chatter  of  the  boys  as  they  worked  on  the  sisal 
hedge,  and  he  had  heard  many  curious  things  of 
which  they  would  never  have  spoken  if  they  had 
known  that  he  was  there.  He  wanted  to  know  all 
about  James,  and  seemed  relieved  when  she  told  him 
of  his  calm  awakening.  "Now  he  should  be  all  right," 
he  said,  and  told  her  what  to  do  in  the  matter  of  food 
and  of  quinine.  "But  you  sound  tired,"  he  said. 
"You  must  rest  yourself.  The  night  of  quiet  and 
comfort  has  made  all  the  difference  to  me.  I'm  afraid 
I'm  an  anxiety  to  you ;  and  you  have  enough  to  worry 
about  already." 

Although  this  was  almost  an  echo  of  her  own 
thought,  she  denied  it  hastily. 


ii4  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"Ah,  but  I  need  not  be  an  anxiety  much  longer," 
he  said.  "A  day  or  two  and  I  shall  be  able  to  fend 
for  myself.  I  could  hear  that  you  were  nervous  when 
you  spoke  to  the  boys." 

She  wanted  to  explain  herself ;  for  suddenly,  think- 
ing of  what  life  at  Luguru  would  be  like  if  he  left 
her,  she  realised  what  the  presence  of  the  fugitive 
meant  to  her.  But  this  was  no  time  for  talking,  even 
in  whispers.  After  sunset,  when  the  Africans  had 
gone  to  sleep.  .  .  .  She  asked  him  if  there  was  any- 
thing that  he  needed  particularly.  He  told  her  that 
he  only  wanted  two  things,  water  to  wash  in  and  a 
pencil. 

"But  you  can't  use  either  of  them,"  she  said,  "as 
you  are  now." 

She  heard  him  laugh  softly.  "You  don't  know  how 
clever  I  am  with  no  hands  to  speak  of." 

She  moved  away  softly,  and  a  little  later  she  re- 
turned, bringing  with  her  a  gourd  full  of  water,  soap 
and  a  towel,  and  the  pencil  for  which  he  had  asked 
her.  Very  carefully  she  moved  aside  the  partition  and 
pushed  them  inside.  But  she  did  not  see  him,  for  the 
inside  of  the  banda  was  dark  and  the  sound  of  a  step 
on  the  garden  path  made  her  close  the  open  space  hur- 
riedly. And  even  though  she  found  that  her  fancy 
had  deceived  her,  this  sort  of  thing  was  not  over-good 
for  her  nerves. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 


In  this  manner,  all  through  that  day  which  was 
the  first  and  the  most  trying,  she  hovered  between  her 
two  anxieties.  James  was  more  than  usually  difficult 
and  talkative.  With  the  vanishing  of  his  fever  it 
seemed  as  if  all  the  accumulated  nervous  energy  which 
disease  had  beneficently  drugged  were  suddenly  re- 
leased. He  prayed  aloud;  he  made  plans,  and  in  the 
intervals  he  would  call  to  Eva  to  remind  her  of  some 
small  thing  that  had  happened  at  Far  Forest  many 
years  before.  It  was  all  encouraging  in  a  way,  but 
tiring  .  .  .  very  tiring.  In  the  evening,  about  the 
time  of  sunset,  he  fell  asleep  over  his  Bible,  and  the 
relief  to  Eva  was  as  great  as  if  he  had  been  delirious 
all  day. 

She  sat  on  the  stoep  in  that  sudden  interval  of  si- 
lence and  relief,  watching  the  hot  sky  grow  cool  and 
temperate,  watching,  a  little  later,  the  growing  cres- 
cent of  the  young  moon  free  itself  from  the  topmost 
tangles  of  the  forest  and  then  go  sailing,  as  if  in- 
deed it  had  been  caught  and  were  now  released  into  a 
dusky  sky.  Almost  before  she  had  realised  that  the 
light  was  failing,  it  was  night.  The  crescent  now 
was  soaring  through  the  crowns  of  her  own  tall  cro- 
tons.  From  every  grassy  nullah  where  water  once 
had  flowed  the  frogs  began  their  trilling.  She  won- 
dered if  she  would  ever  taste  the  long  coolness  of 
twilight  again. 

Then,  when  she  had  made  a  small  meal  and  put 
aside  some  food  for  Hare,  she  lit  a  blizzard  lantern 


u6  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

and  carried  it  to  her  banda.  From  the  other  end  of 
the  compound,  where  the  Africans  slept,  she  heard 
the  twanging  of  a  strange  instrument.  One  of  the 
boys  was  singing  an  interminable,  tuneless  native  song. 
At  any  rate  they  were  safe  for  the  night. 

Hare  was  waiting  for  her.  She  placed  the  lan- 
tern on  her  own  side  of  the  partition,  so  that  only  a 
wide  panel  of  light  fell  within  the  inner  chamber.  He 
was  sitting  up  on  his  bed  of  sisal  fibre,  making  a  sav- 
age but  intensely  pathetic  figure.  I  don't  suppose  he 
knew  for  one  moment  what  a  ruffian  he  looked.  For 
many  years  he  had  lived  a  life  in  which  one  does  not 
consider  appearances,  but,  for  all  that,  he  had  tried  to 
make  himself  as  clean  as  he  could  with  one  imperfect 
hand.  He  had  combed  his  long  hair  and  even  at- 
tempted to  make  a  job  of  his  beard.  This  was  really 
the  first  time  that  Eva  had  properly  seen  him.  The 
night  before,  in  spite  of  his  exhaustion,  he  had  seemed 
so  collected  and  capable,  so  eager  not  to  make  trouble, 
and  she  had  been  so  anxious  about  James  and  dis- 
tressed by  the  difficulty  of  the  situation  that  she  hadn't 
quite  taken  in  his  absolute  helplessness.  It  came  to 
her  in  a  sudden  flash  of  realisation.  She  felt  guilty 
and  ashamed.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Now  I  am  much  more  comfortable,"  he  said,  mak- 
ing matters  worse  than  ever. 

"But  how  on  earth  have  you  managed  ?"  she  whis- 
pered. "Your  poor  arm.  .  .  .  I've  neglected  you 
shockingly." 

All  at  once  she  became  maternal  and  practical.  It 
was  not  very  difficult  for  her.  For  the  greater  part 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  117 

of  her  life  she  had  been  looking  after  helpless  male 
creatures:  first  her  old  father  and  then  James.  Now 
she  would  not  be  denied. 

"Where  is  the  arm  broken?"  she  asked. 

It  was  nothing,  he  said,  only  a  smashed  collar-bone. 
It  had  been  broken  before.  "Only,  you  see,  I  must 
keep  the  upper  arm  close  to  the  side.  It  acts  as  a  sort 
of  splint.  In  a  fortnight  it  will  be  sound.  I  know 
all  about  this  sort  of  thing.  I  have  to." 

"I'm  going  to  wash  you,  anyway,"  she  said. 

I  do  not  suppose  such  a  thing  as  this  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  Hare  in  all  his  life;  but  now  he  was  too 
helpless  and  the  idea  too  reasonable  for  him  to  pro- 
test. To  Eva  the  business  came  quite  naturally.  Very 
tenderly  she  disentangled  the  dirty  shirt  of  khaki  drill 
from  his  left  shoulder,  slipping  the  sleeve  over  the 
poor  pointed  stump  of  what  had  once  been  one  of 
the  wiriest  arms  in  Africa.  It  was  a  painful  proc- 
ess to  her;  all  the  time  she  felt  that  she  was  hurting 
him;  but  he  smiled  up  at  her  with  a  look  of  confi- 
dence and  shyness  which  one  might  more  easily  have 
seen  on  the  face  of  a  child  than  of  this  old  hunter. 

The  shirt  was  dirty  .  .  .  horribly  dirty;  but  he 
made  no  apologies  which  might  have  embarrassed 
them  both.  The  injured  shoulder  was  more  difficult. 
Pain  twisted  his  lips  into  a  sort  of  smile.  "Easy 
...  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said. 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind  my  slitting  up  the  sleeve," 
she  suggested. 

"No  .  .  .  that  wouldn't  do.     It's  my  only  shirt. 


ii8  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

It's  only  dirty  because  of  this  accident.  I  generally 
wash  it  every  few  days." 

At  last  it  was  over.  Now  she  could  see  the  angle 
of  the  broken  collar-bone,  and  from  it  a  great  bruise, 
purple  and  yellow,  tracking  down  into  the  axilla.  She 
washed  him,  passing  gently  over  the  bruised  area. 
When  she  had  finished  he  thanked  her.  "This  is  not 
a  woman's  work,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but  it  is,"  she  smiled. 

"Perhaps  I  am  wrong.  It  is  many  years  since  I 
have  spoken  to  a  woman.  I  live  a  very  solitary  life. 
Even  before  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  my  arm." 
It  was  funny  to  see  how  his  little  self-consciousness 
showed  itself. 

Now  she  was  anxious  to  rescue  his  very  awful 
shirt;  for  she  had  decided  that  it  would  be  easy  to 
fit  him  out  in  one  of  James's  until  it  was  clean.  He 
was  almost  as  anxious  about  that  as  he  had  been 
about  the  rifle.  He  didn't  want  to  offend  her ;  but  for 
all  his  gentleness  he  was  determined  to  get  it  back. 

"But  we  must  wash  it,"  she  said.  "What  is  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"You  can  have  it,  but  .  .  .  did  you  notice  that 
there's  a  big  pocket  in  the  left  breast?  Yes  .  .  . 
that's  it.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  look  in  it. 
There's  a  wee  packet  of  papers  in  a  waterproof  cover. 
That's  what  I  want.  It's  very  near  the  only  thing  in 
my  gear  that  I've  saved.  It  has  only  a  personal 
value."  He  paused  and  then  modestly  added:  "It's 
the  fruits  of  several  adventurous  years.  It's  a 
book " 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  119 

He  looked  at  her  very  narrowly.  She  could  see 
now  that  his  eyes  were  of  a  very  clear  blue-grey. 
In  the  lamplight  they  sparkled  like  the  eyes  of  a  bird. 
Then  he  smiled. 

"I  may  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  the  first 
human  being  I  have  ever  told  that  to  ...  and  there 
aren't  many  .  .  .  who  would  not  have  thought  it 
rather  a  joke." 

"But  that  would  be  ridiculous,"  she  said.  "For  I 
don't  know  you.  When  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't 
even  know  your  name." 

"I'm  called  Hare,"  he  said,  "Charles  Hare.  It's 
possible  you've  heard  the  name.  Not  probable  you've 
heard  any  good  of  it."  It  sounded  as  if  he  were  try- 
ing to  make  the  best  of  it  himself. 

She  repeated :  "Charles  Hare."  But  when  he  heard 
the  words  in  her  voice  his  incorrigible  romanticism 
wouldn't  permit  him  to  let  them  pass.  It  was  like 
Hare  to  abandon  in  one  moment  an  alias  that  he  had 
carried  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  I  suppose  it  was 
just  the  directness  and  simplicity  of  Eva  that  worked 
the  miracle :  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  it  would 
be  a  shame  to  deceive  her  in  the  least  particular.  He 
said: 

"You  can  forget  that  name.  It's  none  the  better 
for  my  having  carried  it  I  don't  know" — there  was 
a  bright  challenge  in  his  eyes — "that  it's  really  much 
worse.  But  it  isn't  mine.  My  name  is  M'Crae. 
Hector  M'Crae." 

She  was  bewildered.     ''But  why "  she  began. 

"I  had  sufficient  reasons  for  losing  it/'  he  said. 


120  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"I've  found  it  again.  I've  found  a  lot  of  things 
during  the  last  four  days.  You  must  forgive  me  for 
having  deceived  you.  One  gets  into  the  habit.  ..." 

It  sounded  rather  a  lame  finish. 

"Oh,  it's  a  long  story,"  he  said,  "a  long  story. 
Some  day  if  you'll  listen  to  me  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Now, 
if  you  please,  we'll  leave  it.  I  want  to  know  about 
your  brother.  I  should  like  to  know  a  little  about 
you.  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  question  her  narrowly  on  the  subject 
of  James,  approving,  with  monosyllables,  what  she 
had  done.  And  then  he  told  her  seriously  that  she 
was  looking  over-tired.  "You  want  sleep,"  he  said. 
"We  mustn't  talk  any  more  to-night.  Will  you  throw 
this  blanket  over  my  shoulders  ?  Oh  .  .  .  and  there's 
one  thing  more.  I've  been  clumsy  enough  to  break 
the  point  of  your  pencil.  There's  a  knife  on  my  belt. 
Will  you  sharpen  it  for  me?" 


in 

It  was  four  nights  later  that  M'Crae — it  is  better 
to  call  him  M'Crae,  if  it  were  only  to  dissociate  this 
new  being  from  the  figure  which  so  many  people  in 
Africa  know — came  to  his  story.  Eva  had  never 
asked  for  it ;  and  I  think  this  delicacy  on  her  part  did 
something  towards  making  him  feel  that  it  was  her 
due.  Besides  this,  the  passage  of  time  had  made  an 
intimacy  between  the  two  more  easy.  For  one  thing, 
James  suffered  no  return  of  his  fever:  Eva  was  less 
harassed  and  for  that  reason  more  able  to  devote  her- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  121 

self  to  the  other  invalid.  She  had  made  it  clear  to 
him,  once  and  for  all,  that  a  man  with  one  hand,  and 
that  in  a  sling,  was  in  no  position  to  look  after  him- 
self. At  first,  no  doubt,  his  native  pride,  of  which 
he  had  more  than  a  man's  ordinary  share,  and  which 
had  been  fostered  alike  by  his  infirmity  and  his  soli- 
tary manner  of  life,  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  ac- 
cept her  attentions  with  ease;  but  by  degrees  the  nat- 
uralness and  the  simplicity  of  her  outlook  overcame 
him.  Perhaps  this  was  not  so  strange  as  one  might 
imagine,  for  the  man's  independence  was  more  a  mat- 
ter of  habit  than  of  instinct.  Her  deftness  and  her 
tenderness  together  made  it  impossible  to  resist  even 
if  he  would  have  done  so.  And  her  beauty  ...  I 
do  not  know.  I  don't  think  I  want  to  know.  Per- 
haps he  was  in  love  with  her  from  the  beginning. 
If  he  were,  I  can  only  believe  that  it  was  a  great 
blessing  to  him:  the  very  crown  and  fulfilment  of  a 
strangely  romantic  life. 

On  the  fourth  evening  he  had  evidently  prepared 
himself  for  his  recitation.  He  would  not  talk  of 
other  things.  Eva  couldn't  understand  it  at  first :  for 
he  answered  her  questions  as  though  he  were  not  in 
the  least  interested,  and  she  thought  that  for  some 
queer  reason  of  his  own  he  was  sulking,  or  perhaps 
that  he  was  in  pain.  I  suppose  he  was  in  pain.  It 
was  not  an  easy  matter  for  a  man  like  M'Crae  to  get 
a  story  off  his  chest.  She  had  hung  the  blizzard  lamp 
at  the  mouth  of  the  banda  and  she  was  sitting  in  a 
deck-chair  close  to  the  partition,  where  it  was  so  dark 
that  neither  of  them  could  see  the  other's  face.  She 


122  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

was  just  conscious  of  his  eyes  in  the  darkness,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  they  never  left  her  face.  It  was 
a  very  quiet,  moonless  night.  For  some  reason  the 
sky  was  unusually  cloudy.  The  noises  of  the  dark, 
the  zizzing  of  cicalas  and  the  trilling  of  frogs  were 
so  regular  that  they  became  as  unnoticeable  as  silence. 
In  the  roof  little  lizards  were  moving;  but  they,  too, 
came  and  went  as  softly  as  shadows.  No  violence 
troubled  their  isolation,  unless  it  were  the  impact  of 
an  occasional  moth  hurling  out  of  the  darkness  at 
the  lantern's  flame  or  the  very  distant  howling  of  a 
hyena  on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  It  was  a  silence  that 
invited  confidences.  No  two  people  in  the  world 
could  have  been  more  alone. 

At  length  Eva  asked:  "Mr.  M'Crae,  what's  the 
matter  with  you?" 

He  said :  "Nothing."  And  there  followed  another 
long  silence. 

Then,  without  a  word  of  introduction,  he  began 
talking  to  her  about  his  childhood.  A  long  and  dis- 
ordered story.  He  didn't  seem  to  be  considering  her 
at  all  in  the  recitation. ,  She  might  not  even  have 
been  there,  she  thought,  if  it  had  not  been  that  his 
eyes  were  always  on  her.  It  was  a  remote  and  sav- 
age story,  which  began  in  the  island  of  Arran,  fifty 
years  ago:  a  small  farm  of  stone  in  the  mountain 
above  Kilmory  Water,  dreaming  above  a  waste  of 
sea  in  which,  at  night,  the  lighthouse  on  the  Isle  of 
Pladda  shows  the  only  token  of  life.  But  by  day 
all  the  mouth  of  the  firth  to  Ailsa  Craig  would  be 
streaked  with  the  smoke  of  steamers  making  for  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  123 

Clyde,  and  others  reaching  out  from  those  grey  waters 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
shipping,"  he  said,  "I  might  have  lived  all  my  life  at 
the  Clachan  and  never  known  that  there  was  anything 
else  in  the  world.  I  should  be  living  there  now.  Let 
me  see  ...  July.  .  .  .  It'll  be  over-early  for  the 
heather.  I  can  see  my  father  there  now.  But  he 
must  be  dead  for  all  that.  When  I  left  him  he  was 
a  strong  man  of  sixty  without  a  single  grey  hair  to 
his  head.  Strong.  .  .  .  Ay,  and  just  But  hard. 
Hard  as  granite.  I  don't  judge  him  harshly.  I  often 
see,  now  that  I'm  not  so  young  as  I  was,  that  if  I 
had  stayed  in  Arran,  as  my  brothers  did,  I  might 
have  grown  into  something  very  like  him.  Some- 
times I  catch  myself  in  a  gesture  or  even  a  turn  of 
speech  which  is  him  to  the  life.  That  is  the  outside 
of  me.  All  the  battering  about  the  world  I've  had 
hasn't  been  enough  to  get  rid  of  the  externals.  In- 
side it's  very  different.  My  father's  eyes  never  saw 
farther  than  the  firth  or  the  sound;  his  life  kept  in- 
side the  Old  Testament,  while  I've  seen  more  of  the 
world  than  most  people,  and  played  skittles  with  the 
Ten  Commandments  too.  Understand  that  I'm  not 
sorry  for  it.  There  aren't  many  regrets  in  my  life. 
.  .  .  Just  a  few.  I've  missed  things  that  are  a  con- 
solation when  a  man  grows  old  ...  a  home  .  .  . 
children  .  .  .  but  I  believe  the  balance  is  on  my  side. 
They  taught  me  the  whole  duty  of  man  in  a  thing 
they  call  the  Shorter  Catechism.  They  would  say 
that  I've  failed  in  it.  But  there's  more  than  one  way 


124  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

of  glorifying  God,  and  there  are  more  gods  than  the 
God  of  my  fathers.  .  .  ." 

He  was  sixteen  when  his  mother  died,  and  her  loss 
had  desolated  him.  He  was  only  a  boy,  but  he  saw 
already  that  life  at  the  Clachan  must  resolve  itself 
into  a  struggle  between  the  two  strongest  wills  within 
its  walls,  his  own  and  his  father's.  If  he  had  lived 
in  some  inland  valley  it  is  possible  that  he  would  have 
found  no  way  of  escape,  even  though  the  most  inland 
Scotsmen  have  a  way  of  escaping.  As  it  was,  his 
prison,  however  remote  it  may  have  seemed,  over- 
looked one  of  the  great  highways  of  the  world,  and 
escape  was  easy.  He  left  Lamlash  one  day  in  a 
ketch-rigged,  round-bottomed  barge  that  was  sailing 
for  Glasgow,  and  from  that  day  forward  he  never 
saw  his  home  again.  Sometimes,  he  said,  he  had 
felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  return.  He  had  a  little 
theory  of  his  own  that  for  a  man  to  be  completely 
satisfied  he  must  see  every  place  that  he  has  visited 
at  least  twice;  no  more  than  twice;  for  the  first  return 
was  an  inevitable  disillusionment,  the  only  cure,  in 
fact,  for  the  wanderer's  hunger.  Once  indeed,  in  the 
early  years  of  his  sea-faring,  he  had  returned  to  the 
port  of  Glasgow  in  the  stokehold  of  a  cattle  ship 
rolling  over  from  Brazil.  He  had  been  talking  to 
the  third  engineer,  whose  home  was  a  village  called 
Kirn,  on  the  Holy  Loch;  and  this  man,  who  glowed 
with  anticipation  at  the  thought  of  nearing  home,  had 
promised  to  call  him  when  they  should  draw  abeam 
of  the  Pladda  light.  "A  sight  for  sair  eyes,"  he  had 
called  it,  and  M'Crae  had  half  persuaded  himself  that 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  125 

he  was  going  to  share  in  this  tender  emotion.  It 
was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  good-na- 
tured engineer  shouted  to  him  as  he  toiled,  sweating 
and  stripped  to  the  waist,  before  the  fires.  He  had 
thrown  a  shirt  over  his  shoulders  and  climbed  up 
the  iron  ladder  of  the  engine-room,  where  the  pistons 
sighed  and  panted,  to  the  dark  deck.  It  was  a  pitchy 
night,  the  sky  full  of  a  howling  wind  and  cold  flur- 
ries of  snow.  In  the  'tween-decks  sea-sick  cattle  were 
stamping  and  making  hideous  noises.  "You'll  see 
the  light  of  Pladda  over  on  the  port  bow,"  the  third 
had  shouted,  and  the  word  "bow"  was  caught  in  the 
tail  of  the  wind  and  borne  away  astern.  M'Crae  could 
see  no  light.  There  were  no  stars  in  the  sky;  only 
a  riot  of  windy  space  in  which  the  feeble  headlight  of 
the  ship  made  dizzy  plunges,  lighting  for  a  moment 
ragged  flakes  of  snow.  Flying  scuds  of  snow,  driven 
through  the  darkness,  spat  upon  his  sweating  chest. 
Over  there,  in  the  heart  of  that  wild  darkness,  Arran 
lay.  The  shoulders  of  Goat  Fell  stood  up  against 
the  storm ;  Kilmory  Water  should  be  in  a  brown  spate ; 
there,  in  the  Clachan,  they  would  all  be  sound  asleep, 
all  but  the  two  sheep-dogs  lying  with  their  noses  to 
the  hearth,  where  fiery  patterns  were  stealing  through 
white  ashes  of  peat.  M'Crae  stood  waiting  in  the 
cold  for  the  expected  thrill.  It  didn't  come.  .  .  .  He 
could  only  think  in  that  perverse  moment  of  sunshine 
and  light;  of  the  green  mountain  slopes  above  Buenos 
Ayres  and  blue,  intense  shadows  on  the  pavement  of 
the  Plaza  where  dark-skinned  ranchers  from  inland 
estancias  lounged  at  the  scattered  tables  of  the  cafes. 


126  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

His  utmost  will  was  powerless  to  enslave  his  imag- 
ination. He  shivered,  and  turned  gratefully  to  the 
oily  heat  of  the  engine-room. 

"Well,  did  ye  see  it?"  the  engineer  shouted. 
"Yon's  a  fine  sight!" 

"Ay,  I  saw  it,"  M'Crae  lied,  and  his  reply  was  ac- 
cepted for  the  proper  Scots  enthusiasm.  He  was  not 
sorry  when  the  ship  sailed  south  again.  All  the  time 
that  she  stayed  in  the  port  of  Glasgow  was  marred 
by  snow  and  sleet  and  rain. 

For  all  that,  in  later  years  he  had  thought  of  re- 
turning more  than  once.  One  day,  at  Simonstown, 
he  had  watched  a  Highland  regiment  sailing  for  home 
at  the  end  of  the  Boer  War.  Someone  had  started 
to  sing  The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  in  a  high  tenor 
voice.  Tears  had  come  into  his  eyes,  and,  having  a 
heap  of  gold  sewn  in  his  waistcoat,  he  had  almost  de- 
cided to  book  his  passage  on  a  mail-boat,  until,  loiter- 
ing down  Adderley  Street  on  his  way  to  the  ship- 
ping offices,  he  had  fallen  in  with  a  man  who  had 
found  copper  in  Katanga,  near  the  shores  of  Tangan- 
yika, and  in  half-an-hour  they  had  decided  to  set  out 
together  by  the  next  northward  train.  And  it  had 
always  been  like  that.  Some  chance  had  invariably 
stood  between  him  and  his  old  home.  "Now  I  shall 
never  see  it  again,"  he  said. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Eva  softly. 

"You  needn't  wonder,"  he  replied.  "It's  one  of 
the  things  of  which  I  feel  certain.  I  shall  never  leave 
Africa  now.  Even  in  Africa  I've  come  across  things 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  127 

that  made  me  think  of  Arran.  I  remember.  .  .  . 
There's  a  place  up  above  the  Rift  Valley,  eight  thou- 
sand feet  of  altitude.  It's  called  Kijabe.  One  of 
these  Germans  built  a  hotel  there.  N'gijabi  had  the 
meaning  of  wind  in  Masai.  And  it  can  blow  there. 
Long  before  the  German  came  near  the  place  I  was 
there  .  .  .  before  the  railway  ran  to  Naivasha.  I 
camped  there  for  a  week,  and  all  the  week  I  never  so 
much  as  saw  the  valley  or  the  lake.  Nothing  but 
thin  white  mist,  mist  as  white  as  milk,  just  like  the 
stuff  that  comes  dripping  off  Goat  Fell.  I  remem- 
bered .  .  .  But  it's  a  long  digression." 

He  laughed  softly.  And  then  he  told  her  of  many 
voyages  at  sea  in  which  he  had  come  upon  strange 
things  that  are  no  longer  to  be  seen.  Once  in  a  sail- 
ing ship  he  had  doubled  the  icy  Horn ;  and  later,  sail- 
ing out  of  'Frisco,  had  been  wrecked  on  Kiu-Siu, 
the  southern  island  of  Japan,  being  cast  up  on  a  beach 
of  yellow  sand  where  the  slow  Pacific  swell  was  spill- 
ing in  creamy  ripples.  A  woman  found  him  there, 
an  ugly,  flat-faced  woman,  who  carried  a  baby  on 
her  back.  It  was  a  little  bay  with  a  pointed  volcanic 
hill  at  either  horn  all  covered  in  climbing  pine-trees. 
At  the  back  of  it  stood  the  reed  huts  of  fishermen  and 
on  the  level  plats  of  sand  brown  nets  were  spread  to 
dry.  "A  beautiful  and  simple  people,"  he  said.  "In 
these  days,  they  tell  me,  they  have  been  spoiled."  For 
a  month  he  lived  there,  lived  upon  dried  fish  and  rice, 
wandering  over  the  red  paths  which  climbed  between 
the  pines  on  those  pointed  hillocks.  It  was  Febru- 
ary, and  peerless  weather.  By  the  wayside  violets 


128  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

were  hiding,  and  in  the  air  flapped  the  lazy  wings  of 
the  meadow  browns  that  he  had  known  in  Arran.  "I 
have  seen  those  butterflies  in  Africa  too.  It's  strange 
how  a  thing  like  that  will  piece  together  one's  life. 
I  could  tell  you  things  of  that  kind  for  ever,  if  it 
weren't  that  they  would  tire  you.  And  they  don't 
really  matter. 

"And  then  I  killed  a  man." 

He  paused,  and  she  felt  that  his  eyes  were  on  her 
more  than  ever. 

"That's  how  I  lost  my  name.  The  one  that  I 
found  again  the  other  night.  At  the  time  it  seemed 
to  me  a  terrible  thing.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  think 
it  terrible  now.  If  I  hadn't  killed  him  he  would  have 
killed  me ;  but  for  all  that  the  quarrel  was  of  my  mak- 
ing. It  was  in  Singapore  ...  in  Malay  Street, 
Singapore.  A  street  with  a  bad  name.  He  was  a 
Russian  sailor,  and  he  was  treating  a  woman  in  the 
way  that  no  woman,  whatever  her  trade  might  be, 
should  be  treated.  I  didn't  know  the  woman.  I  shot 
him.  In  a  second  the  place  was  swarming  like  an 
ant's  nest.  I  had  my  clothes  torn  from  me,  but  I  got 
away.  I  was  three  weeks  hiding  in  an  opium  shop 
in  Singapore.  The  Chinese  will  do  anything  for  you 
for  money.  I  didn't  want  to  be  hanged,  for  in  those 
days  I  put  a  higher  value  on  life  than  I  do  now  .  .  . 
a  funny  thing  to  say  of  a  man  who  had  just  killed 
another.  I  hid  among  the  long  bunks  where  Chinese 
sailors  were  lying.  The  place  was  dark,  with  a  low 
roof,  and  full  of  the  heavy  smoke  of  opium.  I  was 
used  to  that;  for  one  of  our  quartermasters  was  an 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  129 

opium  smoker  and  the  fo'c'sle  of  the  Mary  Deans  al- 
ways smelt  of  it.  I  spent  three  weeks  thinking  of  my 
past  sins  and  watching  a  pattern  of  golden  dragons 
on  the  roof;  and  I  did  more  thinking  there  than  I 
had  ever  done  in  my  life. 

"At  the  end  of  those  three  weeks  Ah  Qui — that 
was  the  Chinaman's  name — got  me  away.  I  remem- 
ber the  night.  We  pulled  out  in  a  sampan  from  Tan- 
jong  Pagar  under  the  lee  of  a  little  island.  Pulo  .  .  . 
Pulo  something  or  other.  There  was  an  oily  sea  lap- 
ping round  the  piles  on  which  the  Malays  had  built 
their  huts  and  one  of  those  heavy  skies  that  you  get 
in  the  Straits  washed  all  over  with  summer  lightning. 
But  the  taste  of  clean  air  after  three  weeks  of  opium 
fumes!  They  got  me  on  to  a  junk  that  was  sailing 
for  Batavia,  in  Java.  Old  Ah  Qui  had  stripped  me 
of  every  dollar  I  possessed.  He  wouldn't  do  it  for 
a  cent  less.  When  I  found  myself  on  the  deck  of 
that  junk,  breathing  free  air  under  the  flapping  sails, 
the  want  of  money  didn't  trouble  me.  I  stretched  out 
my  arms.  I  filled  my  lungs.  I  could  have  sung  for 
joy.  .  .  . 

"At  Batavia  I  shipped  under  the  Dutch  flag  under 
the  name  of  Charles  Hare.  It  wasn't  a  bad  name. 
It  came  to  me  in  a  flash.  We  landed  at  Capetown 
in  the  year  eighteen  eighty-five.  It  was  the  year  after 
the  discovery  of  gold  at  De  Kaap;  Moodie's  farm  had 
just  been  opened.  Everybody  was  talking  of  gold. 
While  we  lay  in  Table  Bay  waiting  for  cargo  they 
found  the  Sheba  reef.  We  heard  of  it,  myself  and 
another  man  named  Miles,  in  a  dope  shop  down  by 


130  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  harbour.  We  didn't  think  twice  about  it.  That 
very  night  we  set  off  for  the  Transvaal  on  foot. 

"I  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  We  had  a  fair  start 
of  the  others  who  came  flocking  out  from  Europe. 
And  it  wasn't  only  luck.  I  kept  my  head.  That  is 
part  of  the  virtue  of  being  a  Scotsman.  I  kept  my 
head  where  poor  Miles  didn't  I  had  had  my  les- 
son :  those  three  weeks  of  hard  thinking  in  Ah  Qui's 
opium  shop.  And  Miles  went  under.  Twice  I  put 
him  on  his  feet  again,  but  he  didn't  pay  for  helping. 
He  was  never  the  man  that  I  should  have  chosen.  He 
just  happened  to  be  the  only  white  man  aboard  that 
Dutch  ship.  I  couldn't  make  a  new  man  of  him.  I 
suppose  he  was  a  born  waster.  There  were  plenty 
like  that  on  the  Rand  in  eighty-six.  I  saw  scores  of 
them  go  under.  And  as  for  murder  .  .  .  that  was 
common  enough  to  make  me  wonder  what  all  the 
fuss  had  been  about  in  Singapore. 

"I  was  lucky,  as  I  told  you.  I  left  the  Rand  in 
eighty-seven.  During  the  last  year,  when  I  had 
parted  with  Miles  and  was  working  for  myself,  I  had 
experienced  a  big  reaction.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the 
adventurous  way  in  which  I  had  been  living  wasn't 
worth  while.  I'd  seen  the  example  of  Miles  .  .  . 
poor  fellow  .  .  .  and  remembered  Singapore.  Be- 
sides, I  had  a  good  bit  of  money  banked  with  the 
Jews — enough  to  live  on  for  the  rest  of  my  life — 
and  the  mere  fact  of  possessing  money  makes  you 
look  at  the  world  in  a  different  way.  It's  a  bad 
thing  for  a  young  man  .  .  .  I'm  sure  of  that.  But 
I  was  a  lot  older  than  my  years. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  131 

"At  any  rate,  when  I  left  the  place  where  Jo'burg 
is  now  I  swore  that  I'd  keep  what  I'd  got  I  came 
down  to  the  Cape  again,  and  built  a  little  house  out 
Muizenburg  way  ...  up  above  the  winter  pool  they 
call  Zand  Vlei  ...  a  fine  little  wooden  house;  and  I 
planted  peaches  there,  and  a  plumbago  hedge  round 
my  mealies.  It  was  all  my  idea  of  a  home.  And 
then,  just  as  the  house  was  beginning  to  be  all  that 
I  expected  it,  I  came  across  a  woman.  I  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  be  in  love  before.  I  was  a 
simple  enough  lad,  for  all  my  money  and  my  pretty 
house.  She  was  an  assistant  in  one  of  the  stores 
that  stood  where  Adderley  Street  is  now.  An  Eng- 
lish-woman. She  had  come  out  there  as  'mother's 
help,'  or  whatever  they  call  it,  to  some  Government 
people;  and  when  they  were  recalled  Mr.  Jenkins  had 
asked  her  if  she  would  come  into  his  store.  I  fancy 
they  came  from  the  same  part  of  the  country.  Her 
home  was  in  Herefordshire.  She  stayed  at  Jenkins', 
and  it  was  there  I  found  her. 

"A  beautiful  woman  .  .  .  beautiful,  I  mean  in 
every  way.  But  it  was  for  so  little,  so  very  lit- 
tle ... 

"I  can  tell  you  ...  I  feel  I  can  tell  you  because 
— if  you'll  allow  me  to  be  personal — she  had  much  the 
same  colouring  as  you;  the  same  eyes,  the  same 
straight  eyebrows,  the  same  sort  of  hair.  I  almost 
fancy  her  speech  was  like  yours  too.  But  one  forgets. 
It  was  thirty  years  ago.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  say  much  about  it.  The  whole  of  that 
experience  was  like  an  evening  in  spring.  As  short 


132  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

and  as  beautiful.  And  we  felt  ...  we  felt  that  this 
was  only  the  beginning.  One  feels  that  on  an  early 
spring  evening  there  is  so  much  in  reserve;  first  the 
season  when  the  may  comes;  and  then  full  summer 
— long  summer  evenings  with  bees  in  the  heather;  and, 
afterwards,  autumn  with  the  rowan  berries.  It  was 
like  that.  We  were  waiting  on  an  evening  of  that 
kind  with  just  the  confidence  that  young  people  have 
in  all  the  beautiful  things  which  will  happen  in  the 
ordinary  passage  of  time. 

"And  that  was  all.  She  died.  Cruelly  .  .  . 
cruelly.  Without  any  warning.  She  was  only  ill 
three  days.  That  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  a 
man  despise  life.  I  had  lost  everything  .  .  .  every- 
thing .  .  .  utterly  lost  everything.  .  .  ." 

He  paused.  Eva  had  drawn  back  her  chair  a  little 
from  the  light.  She  was  crying.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  speak.  She  wondered  if  she  should  have 
spoken.  Out  of  the  darkness  they  heard  a  deep  and 
throaty  rumble. 

"Lion,"  said  M'Crae. 

After  that  there  followed  a  silence. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"And  then  my  life  began  .  .  . 

"A  blow  of  that  kind  knocks  a  man  silly  for  a  time. 
When  he  opens  his  eyes  after  it  nothing  looks  the  same. 
I  was  restless.  I  wanted  to  find  somethng  new  to 
fill  the  gap  in  my  mind.  I  hated  that  little  house 
at  Muizenberg  in  which  I  had  promised  myself  to 
end  my  days.  The  only  thing  that  did  me  any  good 
was  walking,  the  lonelier  the  better.  I  used  to  walk 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  133 

over  the  neck  of  the  peninsula  and  climb  Table  Moun- 
tain, up  above  the  Twelve  Apostles.  I'd  walk  there 
for  hours  in  the  white  mist  that  lies  on  the  top — ' 
they  call  it  the  tablecloth.  I've  slept  there  more  than 
once  when  the  fog  has  caught  me.  And  though  I've 
never  been  back  there  since  those  days  I  was  just 
sane  enough  to  remember  that  it's  a  wonderful  place 
for  flowers.  There's  many  very  pretty  things  there. 
"One  evening  when  I  came  down  from  the  mountain 
I  saw  a  youngish  man  looking  at  my  plumbago  hedge. 
'Pretty  place  you've  got  here,'  he  said.  'Kind  of 
place  that  would  just  suit  me.'  'What  do  you  want 
it  for  ?'  says  I.  He  blushed  ...  he  was  a  nice  young 
fellow.  .  .  .  'Getting  married/  said  he.  That  nearly 
did  me.  I  could  have  burst  out  crying  on  the  spot. 
But  I  got  him  in  for  a  sundowner  all  the  same.  He 
started  telling  me  all  about  the  young  lady.  'If  you 
don't  mind,'  I  said,  Td  rather  not  hear.  Don't  think 
that  I  want  to  offend  you.  But  if  you  want  the  house 
you  can  have  it.  You  can  have  it  for  two-thirds  what 
it  cost  me.'  I'd  almost  have  given  it  him. 

"In  a  week  we  had  the  thing  settled.  That  year 
they  found  gold  in  the  Zoutspanberg  district.  It  was 
new  country,  very  mountainous  and  wild.  I  didn't 
mind  where  I  went  as  long  as  I  could  forget  the  other 
thing.  I  went  there  by  easy  stages,  seeing  a  goodish 
bit  of  country.  I  sunk  my  money  there  .  .  .  there 
and  in  Zululand.  And  I  lost  it — every  penny  of  it 
but  the  little  bit  which  was  coming  in  to  me,  with  a 
scrap  of  interest,  for  the  Muizenburg  farm.  I  lost 
my  money  .  .  .  but  I  think  I  found  myself. 


134  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"It  was  a  great  game  country,  that.  I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  much  game  left  there  now,  but  in  those 
days  it  was  swarming,  all  the  way  from  the  mountains 
to  the  Limpopo.  It  was  a  big,  lonely  country.  Those 
were  the  two  things  that  got  hold  of  me.  I  used  to 
ride  out  there  on  hunting  expeditions  with  no  more 
company  than  one  boy.  I  remember  sitting  there  one 
night  after  supper  with  a  pipe  of  Boer  tobacco,  and 
then  the  thought  came  to  me:  'Good  God!  as  I  sit 
here  now  there's  probably  not  another  white  man 
within  fifty  miles.' 

"That  was  the  beginning  of  it.  I  began  to  follow 
out  the  idea,  and  I  soon  realised  that  my  fifty  miles 
was  nothing  to  speak  of.  North  of  me  it  would  eas- 
ily run  into  thousands  .  .  .  thousands  of  miles  of 
country  that  no  living  man  knew  anything  about; 
where,  for  all  we  knew,  there  might  be  rivers  and 
lakes  and  cities  even  that  had  never  been  seen,  all 
waiting  for  a  man  who  would  set  out  to  find  them  for 
the  love  of  the  thing.  It  was  a  big  idea,  almost  too 
big  for  one  man's  life.  But  it  was  the  very  thing 
for  which  my  loneliness  had  been  waiting.  Africa. 
.  .  .  Years  afterwards — I  think  it  was  after  the  war 
— I  came  across  a  poem  by  Kipling:  a  man,  one  of 
your  amateur  settlers,  showed  it  me  in  the  Kenya 
province.  It  was  about  Africa.  He  called  Africa 
'the  woman  wonderful.'  Yes  .  .  .  'lived  a  woman 
wonderful,'  it  began.  I'd  lost  one  wonderful  woman. 
Now  I  found  another.  I've  lived  with  her  for  thirty 
years  and  I  have  never  come  anywhere  near  the  end 
of  her  wonder,  though  I  know  more  of  her  than 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  135 

most  men.  Why,  there  is  no  end.  There  is  always 
something  new.  Even  in  the  last  week  I  have  stum- 
bled on  something  new  and  wonderful.  To- 
night .  ,  . 

"I  had  three  years  of  it  south  of  the  Limpopo.  In 
eighteen  ninety  I  heard  that  Rhodes  was  sending  an 
expedition  into  Mashonaland.  There  were  only  five 
hundred  of  us  in  'ninety;  but  I  always  want  to  shake 
a  man  by  the  hand  if  he  was  with  us  in  those  days. 
The  men  who  rode  up  to  Salisbury  .  .  .  men  that  I'd 
still  give  my  life  for:  men  like  Selous.  A  great 
hunter,  and  a  good  man ! 

"From  that  day  to  this  my  life  has  been  much  the 
same.  There  have  been  one  or  two  diversions.  In 
ninety-five  the  Jameson  raid,  and  a  few  years  later 
the  Boer  War.  Wasted  years  .  .  .  but  I  didn't  fully 
realise  the  value  of  time  in  those  days.  I  was  a  wild 
fellow  too.  God  knows  how  much  I  drank.  A  young 
man  thinks  that  he  is  going  to  live  for  ever.  Still,  I 
suppose  there  was  a  mess  to  be  cleared  up  and  it  had 
to  be  done,  and  after  the  war  I  had  my  own  way. 
I  never  slept  where  I  couldn't  see  the  Southern  Cross. 

"I  could  tell  you  a  good  deal  about  Africa,  all 
Africa  from  the  Orange  River  to  Lake  Chad  and  the 
Blue  Nile,  and  the  Lorian  Swamp.  I've  hunted 
everywhere — not  for  the  love  of  hunting,  but  because 
a  man  must  live.  I've  not  been  one  of  those  that 
make  hunting  pay.  I've  shot  elephants  because  ivory 
would  keep  me  in  food  and  porters  and  ammunition. 
I've  poached  ivory  with  a  clear  conscience  for  the 
same  reason.  I've  found  gold,  gold  and  copper:  and 


136  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

I've  let  other  men  scramble  for  the  fortunes.  I  didn't 
want  their  fortunes.  I  wanted  to  know  Africa.  And 
always  .  .  .  for  my  own  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of 
other  people,  I  have  made  notes  of  the  things  that  I 
saw,  of  kindly  peoples,  of  good  water,  and  things 
like  that.  Some  day  I  might  make  a  book  about  them ; 
but  it  would  be  a  big  book,  and  I  haven't  any  skill 
in  writing.  If  I  could  write  of  all  the  beauty  and 
strangeness  that  I've  seen  as  I  saw  them  a  man  would 
never  put  down  the  book  that  I  wrote.  That's  the 
meaning  of  the  notebooks  that  I  carried  in  my  shirt 
pockets.  There  are  a  lot  more  stored  with  the  Stand- 
ard Bank.  You  see,  I've  been  at  it  for  thirty  years. 
"Now  it's  not  so  easy  as  it  used  to  be.  The  zest 
is  there.  I'm  as  eager,  you  might  almost  say,  as  a 
child;  but  the  power  isn't  the  same.  I  can't  starve 
in  the  same  way  as  I  used  to.  In  the  old  days  I  could 
live  on  a  little  biltong  and  coffee  and  the  mealie  flour 
I  got  from  the  natives.  And  I'm  handicapped  in 
other  ways.  Five  years  ago  I  lost  my  left  arm.  I 
was  lucky  not  to  lose  my  life,  for  a  wounded  elephant 
charged  and  got  me.  I'm  glad  he  didn't  kill  me,  for 
in  spite  of  it  all  I've  had  a  good  time  since.  I  can 
shoot  straight,  thank  God,  if  I  have  something  on 
which  to  rest  my  rifle.  German  East  has  always  been 
an  unlucky  country  for  me.  It  was  near  Meru  that 
the  elephant  got  me.  One  of  the  Dutchmen  in  the 
Arusha  settlement  had  a  down  on  me,  and  there's  been 
a  warrant  out  for  my  arrest.  The  other  day,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you,  they  would  have  had  me.  It's 
a  good  thing  they  didn't;  for  I  want  to  see  this  coun- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  137 

try.  I've  heard  funny  things  about  the  Waluguru. 
They're  worth  more  to  me  than  ivory.  When  this 
shoulder's  better  perhaps  I  shall  find  out  if  the  things 
I've  heard  are  true  .  .  .  and  I've  never  been  to  Kis- 
saki  or  the  Rufiji  Delta.  .  .  . 

"I  think  that  is  all.  It's  strange  how  little  a  man 
can  really  tell  of  his  life.  The  things  that  matter,  the 
wonderful  moments,  can't  be  told  at  all.  What  I've 
been  able  to  tell  you  sounds  like  .  .  .  like  nothing 
more  than  what  might  have  happened  to  any  hard 
case  who's  knocked  about  Africa  for  thirty  years. 
But  for  all  that  life  has  been  precious  to  me.  Per- 
haps you  will  think  it  the  kind  of  life  that  wasn't 
worth  saving.  You  mustn't  think  that.  Because  I'm 
grateful.  I'm  grateful  even  for  these  last  hours.  I'm 
grateful  that  you've  allowed  me  to  make  this  sort  of 
confession.  It  worried  me  that  I  should  have  started 
off  with  a  lie  to  a  woman  like  you.  It  hadn't  struck 
me  that  way  ever  before.  I  dare  say  it  was  foolish 
of  me;  but  when  one  is  weak  one  gets  those  twinges 
of  ...  of  conscience. 

"I'm  hoping  that  you'll  forgive  me.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


T  SUPPOSE  that  their  talk  that  night  made  a  good 
deal  of  difference  to  the  intimacy  of  their  rela- 
tion. No  doubt  it  cost  M'Crae  a  considerable  effort 
to  speak  of  things  which  had  been  locked  in  his  heart 
for  years.  As  he  himself  said,  "he  was  no  great 
hand  at  talking."  With  Eva  it  was  different.  The 
small  things  of  which  her  life  had  been  composed  came 
to  him  easily,  in  the  ordinary  way  of  talking.  Among 
them  there  were  no  passages  of  which  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  speak;  nothing  in  the  very  least  exciting  had 
ever  happened  to  her  before  she  had  set  foot  in  Africa, 
so  few  months  before. 

Since  then,  indeed,  there  was  a  great  deal  that  was 
both  difficult  and  puzzling.  It  was  so  great  a  relief  to 
her  to  be  able  to  speak  of  them  that  she  told  him 
everything,  freely,  withholding  nothing.  She  told  him 
how,  at  first,  she  had  mistrusted  the  man  Bullace : 
of  the  equivocal  way  in  which  he  had  spoken  of 
Godovius. 

"Bullace?"  said  M'Crae,  thinking,  "Bullace.  .  .  . 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you.  Although  I  know  the 
name.  It's  possible,  even  probable,  that  he  drank; 
though  I  must  tell  you  that  he  is  the  first  missionary 
I've  ever  heard  of  who  did.  People  at  home  talk 

138 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  139 

more  nonsense,  I  should  imagine,  about  missionaries 
than  about  any  other  body  of  men.  On  the  one  side 
of  their  sacrifices.  They  do  make  sacrifices.  We 
know  that.  But  you  must  remember  that  a  man 
who  has  once  lived  in  the  wilds  of  Africa  doesn't  take 
kindly  to  life  at  home.  They  have  their  wives.  They 
have  children.  That,  I  think,  is  a  mistake.  But 
there's  the  other  side;  the  people  who  laugh  at  all 
missionary  work  and  talk  about  the  folly  of  ramming 
Christianity  down  the  throats  of  people  who  have 
good  working  religions  of  their  own.  They  are  just 
as  wide  of  the  mark  as  the  others.  I've  known  a 
good  many  missionaries;  and  for  the  most  part  I  be- 
lieve they're  neither  worse  nor  better  than  their  fel- 
lows. They're  just  men.  And  men  are  mostly  good 
.  .  .  even  the  worst  of  them.  If  this  poor  fellow 
Bullace  drank  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  him. 
Most  Europeans  who  live  in  the  tropics,  particularly 
if  they  live  alone  in  a  place  like  Luguru,  do  drink. 
At  one  time — about  the  time  of  the  Boer  War — I 
drank  about  as  much  as  any  man  could  do  and  live. 
Loneliness — loneliness  will  drive  a  man  to  drink,  if 
he  hasn't  some  strong  interest  to  keep  him  going.  I 
had  Africa.  Probably  Bullace  had  nothing.  I  told 
you  that  I've  heard  strange  things  about  the  Walu- 
guru.  I  daresay  Bullace  found  that  he  was  a  fail- 
ure ...  a  hopeless  failure,  without  any  chance  of 
getting  away  from  the  scene  of  his  failure.  And  so 
he  drank  to  kill  time.  I  don't  altogether  blame 
him.  .  .  ." 

He  talked  to  her  also  a  good  deal  about  James,  and 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  particular  side  of  the  missionary  problem  which 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  illustrate.  It  was  a  great 
relief  to  Eva  that  they  were  able  to  do  this.  In  those 
earlier  days  when  Godovius  had  appeared  to  her  in 
the  role  of  a  helper  and  adviser,  they  had  often  spoken 
of  James  and  his  troubles;  but  in  this  matter  Godovius 
had  been  obviously  unsympathetic:  he  hadn't  thought 
that  James  was  worth  Eva's  troubling  about,  and 
had  therefore  decided  that  the  topic  should  be  dis- 
creetly and  swiftly  shelved.  M'Crae  was  very  dif- 
ferent. He  listened  to  Eva's  troubles  without  a  hint 
of  impatience,  realising  just  how  important  they  were 
to  her.  It  flattered  her  to  find  herself  taken  seri- 
ously in  little  frailties  of  which  she  herself  was  not 
sure  that  she  oughtn't  to  be  ashamed. 

One  evening,  when  confidences  seemed  to  come  most 
easily,  she  told  him  the  whole  story  of  her  relations 
with  Godovius :  the  first  impressions  of  distrust  which 
his  kindness  had  removed,  his  bewildering  outbursts 
of  passion  and  at  last  the  whole  story  of  her  visit  to 
the  House  of  the  Moon.  She  told  him,  half  smiling, 
of  the  frightening  atmosphere  of  her  journey,  of 
Godovius's  amazing  room,  of  the  shock  which  his 
photograph  had  given  her.  It  astonished  her  to  find 
how  easy  it  was  to  confide  in  this  man. 

He  listened  attentively,  and  at  last  pressed  her  to 
tell  him  again  of  the  terraces  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
and  the  abandoned  building  of  stone  from  which  the 
doves  had  fluttered  out. 

She  told  him  all  that  she  remembered.  "But  why 
do  you  want  to  know?"  she  said. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  141 

"It  is  very  curious,"  he  replied,  "very  curious. 
When  we  rode  up  into  Rhodesia  in  1890  we  came 
across  the  same  sort  of  thing.  But  on  a  bigger  scale. 
It's  likely  you'll  not  have  heard  of  it,  but  there  are 
great  ruins  there  that  they  call  the  Zimbabwes,  about 
which  the  learned  people  have  been  quarrelling  ever 
since.  They're  near  the  site  of  the  Phoenician  gold 
workings — King  Solomon's  Mines — and  they're  sup- 
posed to  be  connected  with  the  worship  of  the  Syrian 
goddess,  Astarte,  of  whom  your  brother  could  tell 
you  more  than  I  can.  But  I  take  it  she  was  a  moon 
goddess  by  her  symbols.  And  it's  curious  because  of 
the  way  in  which  it  fits  in  here.  Kilima  ja  Mweze. 
.  .  .  The  mountain  of  the  moon.  Godovius's  home, 
too.  And  the  strange  thing  is  that  it  tallies  with  the 
stories  which  I  heard  from  the  Masai  about  the  Walu- 
guru;  the  stories  that  brought  me  over  into  this  coun- 
try." 

"It  was  the  night  of  the  new  moon  when  I  went 
there,"  she  said.  "And  Onyango  was  afraid  to  go 
to  the  Waluguru  for  the  same  reason." 

He  said :  "Yes  .  .  .  it's  a  matter  that  needs  think- 
ing over."  And  then,  after  a  long  pause:  "But  I'm 
thankful  that  I  came  here." 

"For  my  sake,"  she  said  softly.     He  only  smiled. 

After  that  they  did  not  speak  of  Godovius  for  a 
long  time.  I  think  those  evenings  must  have  been 
very  wonderful  for  both  of  them;  for  it  is  doubtful 
if  either  M'Crae  or  Eva  had  ever  shared  an  intimacy 
of  this  kind.  In  it  there  was  no  hint  of  love-making. 
The  extraordinary  candour  of  their  relation  made  im- 


142  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

possible  the  bash  fulness  and  misunderstanding  out  of 
which  love-making  so  often  springs.  The  difference 
of  age  between  them  made  it  unlikely  that  Eva  should 
think  of  M'Crae  as  a  lover;  and  he  was  not  a  young 
man  in  whom  the  mere  physical  presence  of  a  woman 
would  awaken  passion.  Many  years  ago  he  had  out- 
grown that  sort  of  thing;  so  that  the  result  of  their 
intimacy  was  a  wholly  delightful  relation,  which  re- 
sembled, in  its  frankness  and  freedom  from  the  sub- 
conscious posings  of  sex,  the  friendship  of  two  men 
or  of  a  man  and  a  woman  happily  married  who  have 
rid  themselves  of  the  first  restlessness  of  passion.  To 
Eva  it  seemed  that  this  state  of  innocence  might  last 
for  ever.  To  M'Crae,  who  knew  the  workings  of  the 
human  heart  more  widely,  it  seemed  very  beautiful, 
and  very  like  her,  that  she  should  think  so. 

But  if  Eva  realised  no  threat  to  their  peace  of 
mind  in  the  shape  of  passion,  she  was  certainly  con- 
scious of  other  dangers  to  their  secret  happiness. 
She  knew  that  the  day  must  come  when  the  presence 
of  M'Crae  would  be  revealed  to  James,  who  seemed, 
for  the  time,  to  have  got  the  better  of  the  fever  in 
his  blood.  She  dreaded  this  because  she  knew  that 
when  it  came  to  that  she  must  almost  certainly  lose 
M'Crae;  and  the  presence  of  M'Crae  had  made  her 
happier  than  she  had  ever  been  before  at  Luguru. 
James  wouldn't  understand  their  position.  She  could 
be  sure  of  that  in  advance.  To  say  that  James  wasn't 
capable  of  relieving  her  of  the  attentions  of  Godovius 
would  not  help  matters  much,  for  James  had  a  good 
opinion  of  himself  in  the  role  of  the  protecting  male. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  143 

The  idea  that  his  place  should  be  taken  by  a  one- 
armed  elephant-hunter  of  the  most  doubtful  antece- 
dents, who  had  stolen  into  his  house  in  the  night  while 
he  lay  sick  with  fever,  would  not  appeal  to  him.  In- 
deed, there  was  bound  to  be  trouble  with  James. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  the  question  of  what  James* 
attitude  would  be  gave  much  worry  to  M'Crae;  but 
there  was  another  threat  to  their  peace  of  mind,  of 
which  they  both  were  conscious  and  which  could  not 
be  regarded  so  lightly.  Godovius.  .  .  .  All  the  time 
Eva  was  conscious  of  him  in  the  back  of  her  mind, 
and  particularly  at  night  when  she  and  M'Crae  sat 
in  the  banda  talking.  Then,  from  time  to  time,  she 
would  find  herself  overwhelmed  with  very  much  the 
same  sort  of  feeling  as  that  which  she  had  experienced 
on  the  way  down  from  Njumba  ja  Mweze,  just  before 
she  had  met  M'Crae.  Now,  as  ever,  the  nights  were 
full  of  restless  sound;  and  every  sound  that  invaded 
their  privacy  began  to  be  associated  with  the  idea  of 
Godovius;  so  that  when  a  branch  rustled  or  a  twig 
snapped  at  night  she  would  never  have  been  surprised 
to  have  seen  Godovius  standing  over  them.  He  had 
always  had  the  way  of  appearing  suddenly.  She  grew 
very  nervous  and  jerky  and,  in  the  end,  possessed  by 
the  idea  that  all  their  careful  concealment  was  an 
elaborate  waste  of  time ;  that  Godovius  knew  perfectly 
well  all  that  had  happened  from  that  night  to  this; 
that  her  precious  secret  wasn't  really  a  secret  at  all. 

It  would  almost  have  been  a  relief  to  her  if  he  had 
appeared,  not  only  to  save  her  from  the  anxiety  of 
M'Crae's  concealment,  but  because  no  material  mani- 


144  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

festation  of  his  presence  or  his  power  could  be  half 
so  wearing  as  the  imponderable  threat  of  his  absence. 
For  she  knew  that  it  had  got  to  come.  The  story  of 
his  strange  passion  could  not  conceivably  be  ended 
by  her  flight  from  Njumba  ja  Mweze.  She  knew  that 
he  would  not  have  let  her  go  so  lightly  if  he  had  not 
been  confident  that  she  couldn't  really  escape  from 
the  sphere  of  his  influence.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  said :  "Flutter  away,  tire  yourself  out  with  flut- 
terings.  I'm  quite  prepared  to  wait  for  you.  The 
end  will  be  the  same."  She  could  almost  have  wished 
that  he  had  followed  her  in  more  passionate  pursuit 
instead  of  nursing  this  leisurely  appetite  of  a  fat  man 
who  sits  down  in  a  restaurant  waiting  complacently 
for  a  meal  which  he  has  ordered  with  care. 


n 

In  this  way  the  weeks  passed  by.  At  last  James 
was  so  far  recovered  that  he  was  able  to  sit  out  on 
a  long  basket-chair  upon  the  stoep,  surveying  the 
field  of  his  labours.  Every  evening  he  would  sit  there 
until  the  sun  set  and  the  frogs  began  their  chorus. 
His  last  experience  of  fever  had  made  him  a  little 
fussy  about  himself;'  not  so  much  for  his  own  sake 
as  because  he  knew  that  a  few  more  attacks  of  this 
kind  would  make  life  impossible  for  him  in  that  coun- 
try. He  might  even  be  forced  to  leave  it,  a  failure; 
and  this  humiliating  prospect  made  him  unusually 
careful.  When  he  had  sat  on  the  stoep  for  a  few 
evenings  he  began  to  try  his  legs.  He  walked,  lean- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  145 

ing  upon  Eva's  arm,  the  length  of  the  garden  beneath 
the  avenue  of  the  acacias.  In  those  days  he  seemed 
to  Eva  increasingly  human.  Indeed,  this  was  the 
nearest  she  ever  came  to  loving  him.  "I'd  no  idea," 
he  said,  "what  miracles  you  had  been  performing  in 
this  garden.  I've  been  too  absorbed  in  my  work — 
selfishly,  perhaps — to  notice  them  before."  He 
showed  a  childish  interest  in  fruits  and  flowers  which 
he  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  observe  before. 
"When  you  have  been  ill  indoors,"  he  said,  "every- 
thing that  grows  seems  somehow  ...  I  can't  get  the 
right  word — the  fever  has  done  that  for  me  .  .  . 
somehow  fresh.  Almost  hopeful." 

They  were  standing  together  at  the  far  end  of  the 
garden,  so  near  to  the  banda  that  Eva  knew  that 
M'Crae  must  hear  everything  that  was  said.  Indeed, 
M'Crae  was  listening.  "Do  you  know,  Eva,"  he  heard 
James  say,  "I've  never  been  inside  your  summer-house. 
It  must  be  cool — beautifully  cool  on  these  hot  after- 
noons. Better  than  the  house.  Do  you  remember  the 
summer-house  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  at  Far 
Forest?  You'd  never  let  anyone  use  that."  M'Crae 
heard  Eva  laugh  softly.  "And  this  one's  the  same," 
she  said.  "You  mustn't  be  jealous,  for  you've  got 
our  best  room  for  your  study."  Her  voice  trembled  a 
little  at  the  end  of  the  sentence.  M'Crae  realised 
that  she  was  frightened  for  him.  It  disturbed  him 
to  think  that  a  creature  so  beautifully  innocent  as  Eva 
should  be  forced  into  dissimulation  for  his  sake.  The 
experience  of  the  last  few  weeks  seemed  to  have  made 
him  surprisingly  sensitive  on  matters  of  honour;  a 


146  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

curious  phenomenon  at  his  time  of  life.  He  tackled 
Eva  the  same  evening. 

"James  would  have  come  into  the  banda,"  she  said. 
"You  never  know  what  might  happen.  Probably  he 
would  have  wanted  to  look  through  into  your  part 
of  it.  And  then  .  .  ." 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 

"I  should  have  stopped  him  somehow;  I  should 
have  told  him  some  story  or  other."  She  became 
acutely  conscious  of  his  eyes  on  her  face  and  blushed. 
"Yes,  I  should  have  told  a  lie,"  she  said,  "if  that  is 
what  you  mean." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Things  will  get  more  and 
more  difficult,"  he  said.  "For  you,  I  mean.  Now 
that  I  can  look  after  myself,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to 
stay  in  your  banda." 

He  waited  a  long  time  for  her  reply.  She  sat  there 
with  downcast  eyes;  and  when,  at  last,  she  raised  them, 
even  though  she  was  smiling,  they  were  full  of  tears. 
It  was  a  very  sweet  and  dangerous  moment.  She 
heard  the  voice  of  James  calling  her  from  the  stoep, 
and  was  glad  of  the  excuse  to  leave  him. 

These  were  trying  days  for  all  of  them.  James 
didn't  pick  up  very  quickly.  The  weather  had  begun 
to  show  a  variation  from  type  that  is  not  altogether 
uncommon  in  the  neighbourhood  of  isolated  moun- 
tain patches  such  as  the  Luguru  Hills.  The  time 
about  dawn  was  as  fresh  and  lovely  as  ever,  but  as 
the  day  wore  on  the  heavy  mood  with  which  noon  bur- 
dened the  countryside  increased.  Upon  the  wide 
horizon  companies  of  cloud  massed  and  assembled, 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  147 

enormous  clouds,  as  black  and  ponderable  as  the  moun- 
tains themselves.  By  the  hour  of  sunset  they  would 
threaten  the  whole  sky  and  ring  it  round  as  though 
they  were  laying  particular  siege  to  the  Mission  Sta- 
tion itself  and  must  shortly  overwhelm  it  in  thunder 
and  violent  rain.  Beneath  this  menace  the  sunsets 
were  unusually  savage  and  fantastic,  lighting  such 
lurid  skies  as  are  to  be  found  in  mediaeval  pictures 
of  great  battle-fields  or  of  hell  itself.  These  days 
were  all  amazingly  quiet :  as  though  the  wild  things  in 
the  bush  were  conscious  of  the  threatening  sky,  and 
only  waited  for  it  to  be  broken  with  thunder  or  ripped 
with  lightning  flashes.  With  the  descent  of  darkness 
this  sense  of  anticipation  grew  heavier  still.  It  was 
difficult  to  sleep  for  the  heat  and  for  the  feeling  of 
intolerable  pressure.  But  when  morning  came  not  one 
shred  of  cloud  would  mar  the  sky. 

As  I  have  said,  it  was  trying  weather  for  all  of 
them.  For  James,  who  read  in  the  sunset  apocalyp- 
tic terrors;  for  M'Crae,  sweating  in  the  confined  space 
of  Bullace's  banda;  for  Eva,  who  found  in  the  skies 
a  reinforcement  of  that  sense  of  dread  and  apprehen- 
sion with  which  the  menace  of  Godovius  oppressed 
her.  Still  it  would  not  rain  and  still  Godovius  did 
not  come.  .  .  . 

One  evening  M'Crae  said  to  her  suddenly: 

"I  never  hear  your  Waluguru  boys  working  near 
the  banda  now.  I  suppose  you'll  have  kept  them  at 
the  other  end  of  the  garden  for  my  sake?" 

She  told  him  that  she  was  always  frightened  when 
anyone  came  near  him. 


148  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"You  mustn't  be  frightened,"  he  said.  "At  the 
worst,  nothing  very  serious  could  happen.  But  I  want 
you  to  keep  them  working  near  me.  I  think  this  sisal 
hedge  at  the  back  of  the  banda  is  badly  in  need  of  thin- 
ning. You  can  put  them  to  weed  it  if  you  like.  Any 
job  that  you  like  to  give  them,  as  long  as  they  are 
working  near  me.  I  want  to  listen  to  them." 

"They  will  find  out  that  you  are  here,"  she  said  in 
a  voice  that  was  rather  pitiable. 

"I  expect  they  know  it  already,  but  they  prob- 
ably don't  know  that  I  can  understand  what  they  say 
when  they  are  talking  together.  I  am  curious,  as  I 
told  you,  about  the  Waluguru.  And  I'm  curious 
about  Godovius  too." 

Next  day  she  put  the  boys  to  work  upon  a  patch 
of  sweet  potatoes  under  the  sisal  hedge.  In  the  eve- 
ning when  she  came  to  M'Crae  she  could  see  that  he 
had  heard  something.  For  all  his  hard  experience  of 
life  he  was  a  very  simple  soul.  Once  or  twice  when 
she  spoke  to  him  he  had  to  wait  a  second  to  remember 
the  echo  of  her  question,  and  she  quickly  saw  that 
his  mind  would  really  rather  have  been  thinking  of 
something  else.  This  was  the  only  sign  of  his  pre- 
occupation. In  every  other  way  he  was  his  solemn 
self,  taking  everything  that  she  said  with  a  serious- 
ness which  was  sometimes  embarrassing.  She  didn't 
want  always  to  be  taken  in  such  deadly  earnest,  and 
now  it  seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  he  were  taking  ad- 
vantage of  this  peculiarity  to  evade  her.  She  wasn't 
going  to  have  that 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  149 

"You  might  just  as  well  tell  me  first  as  last,"  she 
said. 

At  this  he  was  honestly  surprised.  "But  how  do 
you  know  I  have  anything  to  tell  you?" 

"You  are  so  easy  to  understand/'  she  said. 

He  smiled  and  looked  at  her,  wondering.  It  had 
never  exactly  struck  him  that  a  woman  could  un- 
derstand him  so  completely.  Of  course  he  knew  noth- 
ing about  women,  but  for  all  that  he  had  always  been 
completely  satisfied  that  there  wasn't  much  to  know. 

"You  want  me  to  tell  you  things  that  I'm  not  even 
sure  of  myself,"  he  said. 

"All  the  more  reason  .  .  .  for  I  might  help  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  ...  I  have  to  think  it 
out  myself,  to  piece  a  lot  of  things  together:  what 
I  heard  from  the  Masai :  what  I  hear  from  you,  the 
things  I've  heard  the  Waluguru  talking  about  to-day. 
I  can't  tell  you  until  I'm  satisfied  myself.  .  .  ." 

She  said:  "You  think  I'm  simply  curious  .  .  ." 
and  blushed. 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  think  that.  You're  so 
straight.  You  need  never  think  that  for  one  moment. 
Even  if  it  were  difficult  I  should  be  perfectly  straight 
with  you.  We  began  that  way.  We  mustn't  ever 
be  anything  else.  Or  else  ...  or  else  there'd  be  an 
end  of  ...  of  what  makes  our  friendship  unlike  any 
other  that  I  have  known.  I  shall  never  hide  anything 
from  you.  Do  you  understand?  Is  that  quite 
clear?" 

She  said:  "Yes,  I  understand.  I  feel  like  that 
too.  ,  ." 


150  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"Oh,  but  you  .  .  ."  he  said.  And  he  couldn't  say 
any  more.  It  was  not  seldom  that  he  found  himself 
at  a  loss  for  words  in  his  dealings  with  Eva. 

For  two  or  three  days  M'Crae  lay  close  to  the  grass 
wall  of  his  banda,  listening  to  the  talk  of  the  boys. 
For  the  most  part  it  was  a  thankless  and  a  straining 
task;  for  they  talked  nearly  always  of  things  which 
had  no  part  in  his  problem :  of  their  own  life  under 
the  leaves,  of  James,  whom  they  had  christened 
N'gombe,  or  Ox,  for  the  obvious  reason  that  he  was  a 
vegetarian.  Only  here  and  there  could  he  pick  out  a 
sentence  that  referred  to  Sakharani — it  was  certain 
that  the  Waluguru  were  afraid  to  speak  of  him — but 
in  the  end  he  learned  enough  to  confirm  the  story  of 
the  Masai:  that  the  Waluguru  were  a  people  among 
whom  an  old  religion,  connected  in  some  way  with  the 
procreative  powers  of  nature  and  the  symbol  of  the 
waxing  moon,  survived;  that  this  faith  and  its  rites 
were  associated  by  tradition  with  the  hill  named 
Kilima  ja  Mweze,  on  which  the  house  of  Godovius 
was  built,  and  that  a  white  man,  now  identified  with 
Sakharani,  was  in  some  way  connected  with  its  rit- 
ual. How  this  might  be,  M'Crae  could  not  imagine; 
for  the  thing  seemed  to  him  contrary  to  all  nature. 
There  was  no  reason  for  it  that  he  could  see,  and  the 
mind  of  M'Crae  worked  within  strictly  logical  bound- 
aries. He  hadn't  any  conception  of  the  kind  of  brain 
which  filled  Godovius's  head.  He  simply  knew  that 
to  the  Waluguru  he  was  the  power  they  feared  most 
on  earth,  as  a  savage  people  fears  its  gods.  He  was 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  151 

anxious  to  know  more;  this  was  exactly  the  sort  of 
adventure  for  which  he  had  lived  for  thirty  years. 

One  other  thing  troubled  him.  He  was  certain  that 
at  some  time  or  other  he  had  heard  a  story  about 
Godovius  which  now  he  couldn't  remember;  he  could 
not  even  remember  when  or  where  he  had  heard  it. 
But  one  morning,  when  the  light  which  penetrated 
the  grass  walls  of  his  banda  wakened  him,  it  sud- 
denly returned  to  him ;  suddenly  and  so  clearly  that  he 
wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  forgotten  it.  It 
concerned  a  woman :  in  all  probability  the  woman  in 
the  photograph  which  Eva  had  seen.  Of  her  origin 
he  knew  nothing,  nor  even  how  she  had  come  to  live 
with  Godovius.  In  those  days  there  had  been  another 
man  at  Njumba  ja  Mweze,  a  planter,  expert  in  coffee, 
who  had  ordered  the  cultivation  of  Godovius's  ter- 
raced fields.  His  name  was  Hirsch.  He  had  rather 
fancied  himself  as  an  artist  in  the  violent  Bavarian 
way,  and  it  was  probable  that  the  pictures  of  native 
women  on  Godovius's  walls  were  his  work.  One  day 
while  the  Waluguru  were  clearing  the  bush  from  a 
new  patch  of  coffee-ground  near  the  house  they  had 
disturbed  and  killed  a  big  black  mamba,  one  of  the 
most  deadly  of  African  snakes.  He  had  brought  it 
into  the  house  to  show  Godovius,  who  straightway 
discovered  in  it  the  making  of  an  excellent  practical 
joke.  For  the  woman  who  shared  their  house  had 
always  lived  in  dread  of  snakes,  and  the  dead  monster 
coiled  in  her  bed  might  very  well  give  her  a  pretty 
fright.  The  joke  was  carefully  arranged,  the  woman 
sent  to  bed  by  candlelight  and  the  door  of  her  room 


152  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

locked  by  Godovius  as  soon  as  she  had  entered.  They 
had  waited  outside  to  listen  to  her  shrieks  of  terror 
and  she  had  shrieked  even  louder  and  longer  than  they 
had  expected.  An  altogether  admirable  entertain- 
ment. At  last  she  stopped  her  shrieking.  They  sup- 
posed that  she  had  suddenly  appreciated  the  humour 
of  the  situation.  They  thought  that  she  would  come 
out  and  tell  them  so;  but  she  didn't — and  Godovius, 
supposing  that  she  was  sulking,  unlocked  the  door  and 
went  in  to  console  her.  She  was  lying  on  the  bed, 
very  white,  beside  the  dead  snake;  and  there  was  a 
living  snake  there  too,  which  slid  away  through  the 
window  when  Godovius  entered  the  room.  It  was 
the  mate  of  the  dead  mamba  which  had  followed  the 
scent  of  its  comrade  into  the  room  and  attacked  the 
woman  as  soon  as  she  appeared.  She  died  the  same 
evening.  No  one  that  has  been  bitten  by  a  black 
mamba  lives.  It  was  an  unpleasant  story  and  prob- 
ably would  never  have  been  known  if  Godovius  had 
not  quarrelled  with  Hirsch  a  few  months  later.  Hirsch 
had  told  it  to  a  couple  of  men  who  had  come  through 
on  a  shooting  trip  at  Neu  Langenburg,  in  the  hotel 
where  he  eventually  drank  himself  to  death;  for  he 
never  returned  to  Munich,  being  barely  able  to  keep 
himself  in  liquor  with  the  money  which  he  earned  by 
painting  indecent  pictures  for  the  smoking-rooms  of 
farmers  on  remote  shambas.  M'Crae  had  heard  the 
yarn  in  Katanga.  A  horrible  business;  but  one  hears 
many  strange  things,  and  stranger,  between  the  Congo 
and  German  East.  Now,  remembering  it,  he  thought 
of  the  pathetic  figure  in  the  photograph  which  had 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  153 

shocked  Eva.  And  this  time  the  thing  seemed  more 
real  to  him,  even  if  it  had  little  bearing  on  the  dan- 
gers of  their  present  situation.  He  realised  that  he 
was  beginning  to  be  sentimental  to  a  degree  on  the 
subject  of  women.  And  when  he  thought  of  women 
in  the  abstract  it  was  easy  to  find  a  concrete  and 
adorable  example  in  the  shape  of  Eva  herself.  He 
smiled  at  himself  rather  seriously,  remembering  his 
age,  his  vagrant  way  of  life,  his  tough,  battered  body, 
the  disfigurement  of  his  lopped  arm. 


in 

On  an  evening  of  unparalleled  heaviness  Godovius 
came  at  last  to  Luguru.  He  rode  down  in  the  stifling 
cooler  air  which  passed  for  evening,  tied  his  pony  to 
the  post  of  the  gate  and,  crossing  the  front  of  the 
stoep  on  which  James  languished  without  notice,  made 
straight  for  the  sand-paved  avenue  of  flamboyant 
trees  where  he  knew  that  Eva  would  be  found.  This 
time  there  was  no  question  of  her  running  away  from 
him.  He  came  upon  her  midway  between  the  house 
and  M'Crae's  banda,  and  she  would  have  done  any- 
thing in  the  world  to  prevent  him  approaching  nearer 
to  this  danger-point.  She  stood  still  in  the  path  wait- 
ing for  him.  It  was  a  moment  when  the  light  of  the 
sun  was  hidden  by  monstrous  tatters  of  black  cloud, 
and  this  suppression  of  the  violence  of  white  light 
intensified  for  a  while  a  great  deal  of  rich  colour  which 
might  never  have  been  seen  in  the  glare  of  day;  the 
tawny  sand  with  which  the  avenue  was  floored,  the 


154  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

rich  green  of  the  acacia  leaves,  the  inky  hue  of  those 
imminent  masses  of  cloud  .  .  .  even  the  warm  swar- 
thiness  of  Godovius's  face:  the  whole  effect  being 
highly  coloured  and  fantastic  as  befitted  this  scene  of 
melodrama.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  it  showed  Eva 
herself  to  advantage.  Godovius  paused  to  admire. 

"The  light  of  storms  becomes  you,  Miss  Eva,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "Nature  conspires  to  show  you  at 
advantage  .  .  .  to  advantage.  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  to  her  strangely  unsubtle  that  he  should 
talk  to  her  in  this  way ;  for  she  was  sure  that  he  knew 
perfectly  well  what  she  was  feeling.  Why  should  they 
trouble  themselves  with  such  elaborate  pretence  ?  She 
said: 

"Why  have  you  come  here?" 

"You  mean :  'Why  didn't  you  come  before  ?'  You 
expected  me?" 

"Yes,  I  expected  you.  But  I  didn't  want  you  to 
come." 

He  laughed.  "Very  well,"  he  said.  "We  won't 
pretend  that  you  did;  but  for  all  that  I  think  you 
used  me  roughly  the  other  night.  Your  departure 
was  .  .  .  shall  we  say  .  .  .  lacking  in  ceremony.  Un- 
reasonably so,  I  think.  For  what  had  I  done?  What 
confidence  had  I  abused?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  must  not  ask  me  to 
explain,"  she  said.  "You  won't  press  me  to  do  so. 
I  wish  you  hadn't  come  now.  It  will  be  a  good  deal 
better  if  you  will  leave  us  alone.  I  think  we  should 
go  our  own  ways.  It  will  be  better  like  that  I  wish 
you  would  go  now.  .  .  ." 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  155 

"But  that  is  ridiculous,"  he  said.  "In  a  desolate 
place  like  this  you  can't  quarrel  about  nothing  with 
your  only  neighbour.  In  the  middle  of  a  black  popu- 
lation it  is  necessary  that  the  whites  should  keep  to- 
gether. Your  brother  would  understand.  I  don't 
think  you  realise  what  it  means.  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  means.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  don't  think  there  is  anything 
to  be  gained  by  that.  It  is  you  who  must  tell  me 
what  is  the  matter  with  you.  Tell  me  why  you  were 
frightened  where  there  was  nothing  to  fear.  What 
were  you  frightened  of  ?" 

She  would  not  answer  him.  He  became  agitated 
and  spoke  faster. 

"I  suppose  you  were  frightened  of  me.  Oh,  you 
were  very  clever.  .  .  .  But  why  should  you  have  been 
frightened?  Because  of  the  name  of  Sakharani,  the 
ridiculous  name  that  I  told  you.  Because  you  thought 
I  was  drunk?  I  told  you,  long  ago,  that  there  was 
more  than  one  way  of  drunkenness.  Ah  well,  to-night 
it  is  a  drunken  man  that  you  face.  Listen  to  me,  how 
I  stammer.  How  the  words  will  not  come.  You 
see,  I  am  drunk  .  .  .  burning  drunk.  You  who  stand 
there  like  a  statue,  a  beautiful  statue  of  snow,  can't 
the  tropics  melt  you?  .  .  .  How  long  have  I  waited 
for  this  day !" 

There  came  to  her  a  sudden  glow  of  thankfulness 
that  this  had  not  happened  on  that  terrible  night  and 
in  that  strange  house.  Here,  in  the  homeliness  of 
her  own  garden,  the  situation  seemed  to  have  lost 
some  of  its  terror. 

And  all  the  time,  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  she  was 


156  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

wanting  to  keep  him  away  from  the  banda  in  which 
M'Crae  was  lying.  She  said:  "My  brother  is  in  the 
house.  If  you  want  him,  I  will  show  you  the  way." 

He  would  not  let  her  pass. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  your  brother,"  he  said.  "It 
is  you  that  I  want.  That  is  why  I  came  here.  Why 
can't  you  trust  me?  Why?  You  are  not  like  your 
brother.  .  .  .  Your  brother  will  be  all  right.  You  are 
meant  for  me.  That  is  why  you  came  here  to  Luguru ; 
that  was  what  brought  you  to  me  the  other  night. 
You  don't  realise  your  beautiful  youth  .  .  .  the  use 
of  life.  You  are  like  a  cold,  northern  meadow  in 
a  dream  of  winter.  You  lie  waiting  for  the  sun.  And 
I  am  like  the  sun.  It  is  for  you  to  awaken  into 
spring.  You  don't  know  the  beauty  of  which  you 
are  capable.  And  you'll  never  know  it  You'll  never 
blossom  in  loveliness.  You'll  waste  your  youth  and 
your  strength  on  your  damned  brother,  and  then 
you'll  marry,  when  there  is  no  more  hope,  some  blood- 
less swine  of  a  clergyman  like  him.  So  to  your  death. 
You  will  have  no  life.  Death  is  all  they  think  of. 
And  here  is  life  waiting  for  you — life  bursting,  over- 
flowing, like  the  life  of  the  forest.  You  won't  have 
it.  You  will  fly  in  the  face  of  nature,  you'll  fight 
forces  stronger  than  yourself.  .  .  ." 

His  enthusiasm  spent  itself.  He  fell  to  tenderness. 
She  was  like  a  flower,  he  said,  a  fragile,  temperate 
flower  that  he  had  tried  to  pluck  as  if  it  had  been 
a  great  bloom  of  the  forest.  It  had  not  been  fair 
to  her.  So  rein,  und  schon  und  hold.  So  like  Eva. 
She  must  forget  all  his  drunkenness.  It  was  not 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  157 

thus  that  the  spring  sun  beat  upon  the  northern  fields. 
More  gently,  more  gently,  and  he  was  capable  of 
gentleness  too.  No  people  were  more  gentle  than  the 
Germans,  even  as  no  people  could  be  more  magnifi- 
cently passionate.  "We  feel  more  deeply  than  other 
races,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  fault,  sometimes,  but  a  mag- 
nificent fault."  He  seemed  to  think  that  by  this  sud- 
den change  of  tactics  she  must  inevitably  be  softened. 

She  stood  with  face  turned  away,  conscious  of  his 
outstretched  hands. 

She  said:  "When  you  have  finished  .  .  ." 

"Ah  .  .  .  you  think  you  have  beaten  me,"  he  said. 
"But  what  if  I  don't  let  you  go?" 

"You  will  let  me  go,"  she  said.  "You  can't  fright- 
en me  as  you  did  Hamisi.  And  you  can't  keep  me 
here.  You  know  you  can't  It  wouldn't  be  decent 
or  honourable." 

"There  is  no  honour  here,"  he  said.  "You're  in 
the  middle  of  Africa.  No  one  can  judge  between  us. 
.  .  .  That  is  why  you're  mad,"  he  added,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  impatience,  "to  waste  your  beauty,  your  life. 
Oh,  mad.  .  .  ." 

She  would  not  reply  to  him. 

"And  there  is  another  thing  which  you  don't  remem- 
ber. You  don't  realise  my  power.  Power  is  a  good 
thing.  I  am  fond  of  it.  I  possess  it.  In  this  place 
I  am  as  reverenced  as  God.  In  another  way  I  am 
as  powerful  as  the  Deity;  there  is  nothing  that  is 
hidden  from  me.  Now  do  you  see,  now  do  you  see 
how  you  stand?  Think.  .  .  .  You  love  your  broth- 
er? So  ...  your  brother  is  in  my  hands.  This  mis- 


158  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

sion  is  only  here  because  I  allow  it.  If  I  will  that 
it  succeed,  it  will  succeed.  If  I  decide  that  it  shall 
fail,  it  will  fail.  I  can  break  your  brother.  If  you 
love  him  it  will  be  better  for  us  to  be  friends.  And 
that  is  not  all.  ..." 

He  waited  and  she  knew  what  was  coming.  She 
felt  that  she  was  going  to  cry  out  in  spite  of  her- 
self. She  heard  herself  swallow. 

"I  know  other  things.  I  happen  to  know  exactly 
how  much  your  pretence  of  immaculate  virtue  is 
worth.  We  have  always  known  that  the  first  char- 
acteristic of  the  English  is  hypocrisy.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  know  all  about  the  guest  in  your  bandaf 
No  doubt  the  news  would  entertain  your  brother,  who 
is  already  shocked  by  the  morals  of  the  Waluguru. 
A  very  pretty  little  romance,  which  has  no  doubt  been 
more  amusing  to  you  than  it  would  have  been  to  him. 
I  believe  your  missionaries  are  very  particular  on  the 
point  of  personal  example,  and  it  is  possible  that  he 
would  .  .  .  shall  we  say?  .  .  .  disapprove.  Oh,  but 
you  need  not  be  frightened.  I  shall  not  tell  him,  un- 
less it  happens  to  suit  me.  As  a  nation  we  are  very 
broad-minded.  We  do  not  preach.  And  I  do  not 
condemn  you.  That  is  the  most  orthodox  Christian- 
ity. It  is  natural  that  a  young  and  beautiful  woman 
should  have  a  lover.  It  is  natural  that  she  should 
have  more  than  one  lover.  I  am  gentleman  enough 
not  to  grudge  you  your  romance,  even  if  I  don't  alto- 
gether approve  your  taste.  So,  now  that  your  pre- 
tence of  indignant  virtue  is  disposed  of,  there  is  a 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  159 

possibility  that  you  will  be  natural.  I  am  not  unrea- 
sonable. I  merely  ask  that  I  may  share  these  dis- 
tinguished privileges.  Obviously  no  harm  can  be  done. 
I  am  content  to  be  one  of  ...  as  many  as  you  wish. 
Women  have  found  me  a  lover  not  wholly  undesir- 
able. I  am  not  old,  or  unappreciative  of  your  beauty. 
Now  you  will  understand." 

She  understood. 

"You  have  nothing  to  say?  I  have  sprung  a  little 
surprise  on  you  ?  Very  well.  I  am  sufficiently  gallant 
not  to  hurry  you.  You  shall  think  it  over.  A  week 
will  give  you  time  to  think.  It  is  always  a  shock 
for  a  virtuous  woman  to  realise.  .  .  .  But  we  will 
leave  it  at  that.  You  will  see  that  I  am  neither  jeal- 
ous nor  ungenerous.  You  have  an  opportunity  of 
doing  a  good  turn  to  your  brother  and  to  the  man  in 
whom,  to  my  mind,  you  are  so  unreasonably  inter- 
ested. One  may  be  magnanimous.  You  call  it  'play- 
ing the  game.'  You  shall  think  it  over,  and  then  we 
shall  come  to  an  agreement — but  you  wouldn't  be  so 
foolish  as  not  to  do  so — certain  unavoidable  things 
will  happen;  as  unavoidable  as  if  they  were  acts  of 
God.  I  am  God  here.  And  you  will  have  yourself 
to  thank.  So,  for  the  present,  we'll  say  *Auf  Wie- 
dersehn.'  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  return  to  your 
friend  in  the  banda.  He  will  help  you  to  make  up 
your  mind.  You  can  tell  him  that  this  is  a  bad  place 
for  ivory.  The  elephants  played  the  devil  with  my 
plantations  and  were  all  killed  years  ago.  When  he 
wants  to  go  back  he  had  better  apply  to  me  for  his 


160  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

porters.     As  to  whether  he'll  have  any  further  need 
for  porters  .  .  .  well,  that's  for  you  to  decide.    His 
fate  is  in  your  very  beautiful  hands." 
With  this  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TTE  left  her  standing  alone  under  the  avenue  of 

•*•  acacia.  A  variety  of  projects  swiftly  rilled  her 
mind.  She  must  go  to  M'Crae,  and  tell  him  every- 
thing. It  was  strange  that  M'Crae  came  first.  She 
must  find  James  without  further  delay  and  explain  to 
him  the  difficulty  in  which  she  was  placed.  But  it 
wouldn't  be  easy  to  explain;  the  process  involved  the 
whole  story  of  the  fugitive,  and  she  wasn't  sure  that 
this  was  hers  to  tell.  And  in  any  case,  James  would 
be  sure  to  misunderstand.  She  realised,  for  the  first 
time,  that  her  relation  with  M'Crae  actually  might  be 
misunderstood;  and  this  filled  her,  more  than  ever, 
with  a  sort  of  blind  anger  which  wouldn't  let  her 
see  things  clearly.  It  overwhelmed  her  with  shame  to 
think  that  M'Crae,  too,  must  look  at  the  matter  in 
the  odious  light  which  Godovius  had  suggested.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  lovely  innocence  of  their  rela- 
tion had  been  smirched  for  ever.  She  mus't  have 
time  to  think.  Now  she  couldn't  think  at  all.  If  she 
were  to  creep  quietly  into  the  house  and  shut  herself 
up  in  her  bedroom  she  would  be  able  to  cry;  and  then, 
perhaps,  it  would  be  easier.  Beneath  this  awful  heavy 
stillness  of  the  charged  sky  she  could  do  nothing.  It 
seemed  to  her  in  the  silence  that  all  the  enormous, 
unfriendly  waste  of  country  was  just  waiting  quietly 

161 


162  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

to  see  what  she  would  do.  Yes,  she  had  better  go  to 
her  room  and  cry.  And  then,  before  she  knew  what 
was  happening,  a  demon  of  wind  swept  down  from 
the  sky  and  filled  the  branches  of  the  avenue  above 
her  with  rushing  sound.  A  scurry  of  red  sand  came 
whirling  along  the  path,  and  above  her  the  black  sky 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  rain;  rain  so  violent  that  in 
a  moment  her  flimsy  dress  was  saturated.  Beneath 
this  radical  and  alarming  remedy  for  mental  anguish 
she  abandoned  any  attempt  at  making  up  her  mind. 
She  simply  ran  for  shelter  to  the  nearest  that  offered 
itself,  and  this  was  naturally  the  banda  of  M'Crae. 

She  arrived,  breathless,  and  beautifully  flushed. 
M'Crae  was  lying  at  the  end  of  the  banda  next  the 
path.  She  could  see  that  he  had  been  watching  them 
all  the  time,  even  though  he  could  not  have  heard 
them.  Through  the  flimsy  wall  of  grass  he  had  pushed 
the  muzzle  of  his  rifle. 

He  smiled  up  at  her.  "You  see,  I  had  him  cov- 
ered," he  said.  "Now  you'd  better  tell  me  all  about 
it" 

Then,  quite  against  her  will,  she  began  to  cry,  mak- 
ing queer  little  noises  of  which  she  would  have  been 
ashamed  if  she  had  been  able  to  think  about  them. 
It  had  to  come.  .  .  . 

To  M'Crae  the  position,  in  its  sudden  intimacy,  was 
infinitely  embarrassing.  At  any  time  it  would  have 
been  painful  for  him  to  have  seen  a  woman  cry;  but 
Eva  was  no  ordinary  woman  in  his  eyes.  She  had 
brought,  in  a  little  time,  a  tender  and  very  beautiful 
ideal  into  his  life.  He  had  thought  of  her  as  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  163 

incarnation  of  all  the  lovely  and  desirable  things  which 
had  passed  for  ever  out  of  his  grasp,  and  chiefly  of 
youth,  which  carries  an  atmosphere  of  beauty  in  it- 
self. But  even  more  than  this,  he  had  worshipped 
her  naturalness  and  bravery,  so  that  it  was  a  terrible 
thing  for  him  to  see  her  in  tears.  He  knew  that  no 
everyday  trouble  could  have  broken  her  simple  and 
confident  courage,  and  the  consciousness  of  this  ador- 
able weakness  overwhelmed  him  even  more  than  his 
admiration  of  her  strength.  He  saw  in  a  moment 
what  a  child  she  was,  and  longed  to  protect  her,  as  a 
young  man  and  a  lover  might  have  done.  He  real- 
ised suddenly  that  the  right  to  do  this  had  passed 
from  him,  years  ago  .  .  .  years  ago.  His  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  he  could  do  nothing;  for  the  only 
things  which  he  might  naturally  have  done  were  obvi- 
ously included  in  the  prerogative  of  that  parental  in- 
terest which  is  the  name  under  which  the  middle- 
aged  man  most  often  hides  a  furtive  sensuality.  Al- 
together, the  matter  was  too  harrowing  in  its  com- 
plications for  an  honest  man  to  deal  with,  and  M'Crae, 
as  we  have  said,  found  himself  in  these  days  a  mass 
of  the  most  sensitive  scruples.  For  all  this  he  felt 
that  he  couldn't  merely  sit  there  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
and  do  nothing.  It  was  natural  for  him  to  put  out 
his  hand  and  take  hold  of  her  arm.  Though  she  had 
often  enough  been  nearer  to  him  than  this  in  her 
ministrations,  he  had  never  actually  touched  her  be- 
fore. Through  the  sodden  muslin  of  her  sleeve  his 
fingers  became  conscious  of  her  arm's  softness. 
He  felt  the  piteous  impulse  of  her  sobbing.  Per- 


164  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

haps  it  was  because  of  the  coldness  of  the  wet  sleeve 
which  he  pressed  against  her  arm  that  Eva  shivered, 
and  M'Crae  felt  that  he  had  been  surprised  in  an 
indelicacy.  Yet  he  had  only  done  the  thing  which 
seemed  most  natural  to  him.  All  the  time  that  she 
was  sobbing,  and  he  so  desperately  embarrassed  by 
her  tears,  the  rain  was  beating  on  the  roof  of  the 
banda,  so  that  if  they  had  spoken  they  could  scarcely 
have  heard  each  other ;  and  in  a  little  time  its  violence 
penetrated  the  slanting  reeds  of  the  roof,  and  water 
dripped  upon  them,  splashing  into  pits  of  the  sandy 
floor.  This  rain  did  not  fall  as  if  it  were  harried  by 
wind,  but  with  a  steady  violence,  increased  from  time 
to  time  to  an  intolerable  pitch,  as  though  the  sky  were 
indeed  possessed  by  some  brooding  intelligence  deter- 
mined to  lash  the  land  without  pity.  Eva  had  never 
heard  such  rain.  For  an  hour,  maybe,  they  crouched 
together  without  speaking,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  when 
the  wildness  of  the  storm  had  abated  a  little,  she  had 
managed  to  pull  together  her  broken  thoughts  and 
make  some  decision  as  to  what  she  would  do. 

In  the  beginning  she  had  imagined  that  she  must 
tell  M'Crae  everything,  but  when  the  first  moment 
at  which  this  might  have  happened  had  passed,  and 
her  fit  of  crying  had  overtaken  her,  she  began  to 
count  the  consequences.  She  knew  that  he  would  not 
stay  at  Luguru  for  a  moment  if  his  presence  endan- 
gered her  peace.  She  knew  that  he  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  save  her;  and  it  suddenly  struck  her 
that  this  involved  an  obligation  on  her  side.  She  must 
not  throw  him  into  Godovius's  hands.  Even  if  she  had 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  165 

not  realised  this  duty,  there  was  always  in  the  back 
of  her  mind  the  conviction  that  M'Crae  was,  in  fact, 
the  only  man  on  whom  she  could  rely.  She  had  felt 
the  pressure  of  his  fingers  on  her  arm,  and  even  though 
she  had  shivered  she  had  been  touched  by  this  rather 
pathetic  attempt  at  sympathy.  In  that  moment  he  be- 
came no  longer  a  man  to  be  relied  on,  but  one  to  be 
protected.  In  an  ardent  vision  she  saw  herself  sav- 
ing the  two  of  them.  Him  and  James.  How?  .  .  . 
Godovius  had  offered  her  terms.  From  this  alone 
she  knew  that  she  had  power  to  deal  with  him,  to 
make  some  sort  of  bargain,  if  only  she  had  time.  Time 
was  the  thing  for  which  she  must  fight  Given  time, 
some  happy  chance  might  move  them  from  Luguru 
altogether.  It  seemed  that  it  might  even  be  necessary 
for  her  to  receive  Godovius's  addresses.  Even  if  it 
came  to  that,  she  was  determined  to  see  the  matter 
through.  As  the  minutes  passed,  and  the  strain  of 
the  sobs  which  she  could  not  control  abated,  she  began 
to  see  the  whole  matter  more  clearly.  The  rainfall, 
too,  was  becoming  less  intense,  and  the  evenness  of  her 
mood  was  increased  by  the  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
relief  which  descends  on  all  living  creatures  when  a 
tropical  sky  has  been  washed  with  heavy  rain.  So 
strangely  was  her  state  of  mind  modified  by  the  down- 
pour, that  she  was  almost  happy.  Now  that  the  storm 
was  lighter  she  would  be  able  to  run  into  the  house 
without  getting  much  more  wet,  and  above  all  things 
she  was  anxious  to  escape  any  ordeal  of  questions. 
"You're  like  to  get  very  damp,"  said  M'Crae.  She 
knew  that  this  was  his  last  way  of  asking  her  to  tell 


166  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

him  what  had  happened;  and  if  he  had  pressed  her, 
as  he  might  easily  have  done,  it  is  probable  that  her 
resolutions  would  have  vanished  and  she  would  have 
told  him.  She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  In  that 
dim  light,  under  the  dripping  banda  roof,  he  looked 
very  pathetic.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  better 
hurry  up.  Outside  it  was  still  raining,  as  it  might 
rain  in  the  height  of  a  thunderstorm  at  home.  The 
eastern  sky  was  ringed  with  masses  of  lurid  yellow 
cloud.  In  the  garden  the  hot  earth  steamed  already, 
and  the  rain  had  washed  away  the  sandy  path,  which 
it  had  been  her  pleasant  labour  to  construct.  Between 
her  and  the  house  a  tawny  torrent  ran.  She  made  a 
rush  for  the  stoep,  and  while  she  ran,  with  her  skirts 
picked  up,  she  laughed  as  she  would  have  done  when 
she  was  a  child  running  in  from  the  rain. 

The  person  who  felt  the  strain  of  this  enforced 
imprisonment  between  four  walls  most  deeply  was 
James.  Every  day  of  late  he  had  been  gaining 
strength  and  looking  forward  more  than  ever  to  the 
renewal  of  his  work.  He  had  even  been  less  con- 
cerned with  his  minor  prophets  and  had  picked  up 
from  among  a  heap  of  Mr.  Bullace's  books  an  account 
of  the  life  and  labours  of  his  great  forerunner,  Mac- 
kay  of  Uganda.  This  book,  the  work  of  the  mission- 
ary's sister,  had  impressed  him  enormously.  It  was 
strange  that  he  had  never  come  across  it  before;  for 
the  early  field  of  Mackay's  splendid  failures  had  lain 
upon  the  edge  of  the  Masai  steep,  only  a  few  hundred 
miles  to  the  northward  of  Luguru.  There,  in  his  col- 
lapsible boat,  Mackay  had  explored  the  waters  of  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  167 

Lukigura  and  the  greater  Wami ;  there  he  had  first 
striven  with  the  coastal  Arabs,  by  whose  whips  chained 
gangs  of  slaves  were  driven  from  the  Great  Lakes  to 
Bagamoyo  and  Zanzibar.  He  read  how  Mackay's 
comrades  had  died  of  fever,  one  by  one :  how  the  mis- 
sionary himself  had  been  beaten  from  time  to  time 
by  that  most  cruel  land,  how  he  had  overcome  at  last, 
by  virtue  of  hardihood  and  enthusiasm,  obstacles  far 
greater  than  any  which  had  stood  in  the  steps  of  the 
most  famous  African  explorers.  It  filled  him  with  a 
flaming  hope  to  realise  that  the  caravans  of  shackled 
slaves  moved  no  more  along  the  trade  routes  through 
M'papwa  on  their  way  to  the  coastal  markets;  but  he 
knew  that  a  slavery  as  degrading  was  still  the  lot  of 
peoples  such  as  the  Waluguru,  among  whom  his  busi- 
ness lay. 

He  was  very  excited  about  it  all,  and  wanted  Eva 
to  read  the  book.  "You'll  see,"  he  said,  "that  we  have 
no  cause  to  grumble.  A  glorious  life:  a  wonderful 
death.  And  yet  one  can't  help  feeling  that  small 
isolated  peoples  like  the  Waluguru  have  been  left  be- 
hind. Missionaries  have  been  eager  to  get  at  the 
intelligent  races,  such  as  the  Baganda,  and  left  the 
more  primitive  for  poor  people  such  as  us.  I  almost 
think  that  our  task  is  more  difficult.  There  are  things 
I  can't  understand  about  them.  It  is  a  privilege  to 
be  dealing  with  virgin  soil  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  ." 

Always  when  he  spoke  of  virgin  soil  the  old  hunt- 
er's warning  as  to  the  deadly  humours  which  its  dis- 
turbance released  returned  to  him. 

"When  the  rain  stops,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  able  to 


168  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

start  work  again.  Mackay's  story  has  taught  me  a 
lot.  I  sha'n't  expect  quite  so  much.  I  hope  this 
weather  will  be  over  by  Sunday.  It  may  change  by 
then,  for  on  that  day  there's  a  new  moon.  We  always 
used  to  say  at  home  that  the  weather  took  a  turn  for 
the  better  or  worse  when  the  new  moon  came." 

She  listened  to  him,  but  only  heard  the  words  that 
he  said  without  entering  into  his  thoughts.  Her  own 
mind  was  too  full  of  wondering  what  she  was  going 
to  do,  always  obstinately  hoping  that  time  would  show 
her  a  way  out  of  her  difficulties.  Only  occasionally  a 
word  would  detach  itself  from  James'  conversation 
and  startle  her  by  its  peculiar  suggestions.  Such  was 
his  conventional  mention  of  the  new  moon.  The  two 
words  had  suddenly  thrust  his  presence  into  the  full 
current  of  her  subconscious  mind.  And  the  strange- 
ness of  this  frightened  her.  It  made  her  suddenly 
want  to  tell  James  everything;  but  when  she  turned, 
almost  resolved  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  to 
do  so,  she  found  that  the  gleam  of  intimacy  had  faded 
and  that  she  couldn't  possibly  do  anything  of  the  sort : 
that  James  was  as  distant  and  precise  as  ever,  an  abso- 
lute stranger  whom  she  could  never  hope  to  under- 
stand, far  more  of  a  stranger  even  than  M'Crae. 

During  the  rainy  days  she  saw  as  much  as  she 
dared  of  M'Crae;  but  it  was  hard  to  find  an  excuse 
for  going  to  her  banda  in  the  wet.  He  suffered  there 
a  good  deal  of  discomfort,  which  struck  her  as  in- 
tolerable, but  which  he  almost  seemed  to  enjoy.  "A 
wonderful  thing,  rain,"  he  said.  "In  a  dry  land  like 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  169 

this.    When  you've  lived  longer  in  Africa  you'll  know 
how  precious  it  is." 

She  tried  to  make  him  as  dry  and  comfortable  as 
she  could.  She  knew  that  he  was  watching  her  nar- 
rowly, felt  that  he  was  waiting  for  her  to  tell  him 
all  that  had  happened  with  Godovius,  but  though  she 
knew  well  enough  that  she  couldn't  keep  it  up  for  ever, 
she  didn't  see  how  matters  would  be  bettered  by  her 
telling.  In  a  way  it  was  almost  as  well  that  he 
shouldn't  know  how  she  stood  between  him  and  dis- 
aster. If  he  had  asked  her.  .  .  .  But  he  didn't.  He 
had  seen  on  the  first  night  that  for  some  reason  or 
other  she  didn't  want  to  take  him  into  her  confidence, 
and  had  decided,  in  pursuance  of  the  peculiarly  deli- 
cate code  of  behaviour  which  his  idealism  had  invented 
for  their  relation,  that  it  was  not  for  him  to  press  her. 
Everything  that  she  did,  every  one  of  the  little  tender- 
nesses by  which  she  ravished  his  soul,  must  be  of  her 
own  sweet  giving.  He  had  an  infinite  and  touching 
faith  in  her  simple  wisdom.  And  it  is  difficult  to  say 
what  would  have  happened,  how  this  story  might  have 
ended,  if  she  had  told  him.  From  the  beginning  it 
had  been  certain  that  it  must  come  to  an  end  of  vio- 
lence. It  is  possible  that  M'Crae  would  have  killed 
Godovius.  For  the  sake  of  Eva  he  would  certainly 
have  doubled  the  offence  for  which  he  had  lost  his 
name  and  suffered  for  so  many  years.  His  own  life 
would  have  been  the  last  thing  which  he  would  have 
considered.  In  the  end  it  was  the  last  thing. 


CHAPTER  X 


three  days  the  rain  fell  so  heavily  that  the 
mission  lay  isolated  on  its  hillside,  as  surely  as  if 
the  country  had  been  submerged  by  floods.  And  yet 
no  waterways  appeared.  That  dry  land  drank  the 
water  as  it  fell  to  reach  the  hidden  channels  by  which 
it  had  drained  for  centuries  into  the  central  ooze  of 
the  M'ssente  Swamp.  On  Sunday,  the  fourth  day, 
the  rain  ceased  about  the  time  of  a  sullen  and  misty 
dawn,  and  by  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  sun  had 
triumphed.  No  one  would  have  believed  that  any  rain 
had  lately  fallen;  for  the  bush  was  full  of  dry  and 
brittle  sound;  the  leaves  of  the  undergrowth  were  of 
the  same  ashen  hue;  the  straggling  candelabra  cactus 
stood  as  withered  as  if  they  were  dying  of  drought; 
the  hornbills  were  calling  on  every  side.  Only  on  the 
higher  mountain  slopes,  where  the  grassland  had  been 
burnt  to  a  shade  of  pale  amber,  a  sudden  and  surpris- 
ing flush  of  the  most  tender  green  appeared,  as  transi- 
tory, alas!  as  it  was  beautiful. 

There  could  have  been  no  more  lovely  or  affecting 
augury  for  James'  return  to  work.  He  was  up  early, 
walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  stoep,  watching  a  flight 
of  starlings,  whose  glossy  plumes  shone  in  flight  with 
the  blue  of  the  kingfisher.  The  night  before  he  had 

170 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  171 

struggled  through  a  long  conversation  with  the  head- 
man of  the  nearest  Waluguru  village,  that  circle  of 
squat  bandas  from  which  their  own  servant,  Hamisi, 
came.  He  had  made  it  the  occasion  of  an  experiment 
upon  the  new  lines  which  his  reading  of  the  life  of 
Mackay  had  suggested.  He  had  found  the  man  more 
curious  about  the  use  of  the  steel  carpentering  tools 
with  which  the  mission  was  well  supplied  than  any 
questions  of  morality  or  faith,  and  when  he  had  gone 
James  had  also  missed  a  chisel.  But  that  didn't  mat- 
ter. It  was  the  price  of  an  interest  which  he  hadn't 
imagined  to  be  possible  in  the  apathetic  mind  of  the 
Waluguru.  He  was  beginning  to  see  his  way.  Even 
if  it  meant  the  sacrifice  of  some  Sabbatarian  scruples, 
he  was  prepared  to  go  through  with  it.  "To- 
morrow, M'zinga,"  he  said  at  parting,  "I  will 
show  you  other  things.  To-morrow,  after  the  service 
at  the  church.  All  these  things  and  many  more  won- 
derful you  can  learn  from  books.  In  a  little  while 
we  will  have  a  school,  and  I  will  teach  your  totos  to 
read  Swahili."  And  M'zinga  had  smiled  with  that 
soft,  sly  smile  of  Africa.  .  .  . 

On  Sunday  mornings,  at  half-past  nine,  it  had  been 
the  privilege  of  the  boy  Hamisi  to  go  down  to  the 
chapel  and  ring  the  little  bell.  It  pleased  him,  for  it 
was  a  work  that  needed  little  effort ;  the  toy  produced 
an  unusual  ndise  and  the  performance  exalted  him 
above  his  fellows.  At  the  best  it  was  a  small  and 
pathetic  sound  in  the  midst  of  so  great  a  wilderness, 
but  very  pleasing  to  the  ears  of  James.  This  Sunday 
morning  he  was  a  little  restless.  As  he  paced  the 


172  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

stoep,  with  his  Bible  in  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
the  time  seemed  to  pass  more  slowly  than  usual.  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  already  half-past  nine. 
He  called  to  Eva  in  the  kitchen  to  see  if  his  watch 
was  fast.  "Five  and  twenty  to  ten,"  she  called.  He 
was  annoyed.  The  Africans,  no  doubt,  were  sleep- 
ing. They  would  sleep  for  ever  unless  they  were  dis- 
turbed. But  Hamisi  had  never  failed  him  before. 
He  hurried  across  the  compound  to  the  hut  in  which 
they  slept.  They  were  neither  of  them  there.  For 
a  moment  he  was  angry,  but  then  remembered  that 
forbearance  was  the  better  part;  that  even  the  best 
of  Africans  were  unreliable.  Some  day  a  time  would 
come  when  things  would  be  different.  Until  then  he 
must  work  for  himself. 

He  set  off,  almost  cheerfully,  down  the  sandy  path 
toward  the  chapel.  The  rain  had  scoured  its  surface 
clean  of  the  red  sand  and  disclosed  beneath  a  mosaic 
of  quartz,  pure  white  and  yellow  and  stained  with 
garnet-red.  The  fine  crystals  sparkled  in  the  sun.  "So 
many  hidden  wonders,"  he  thought.  It  came  into  his 
mind  that  there  might  even  be  precious  stones  among 
them.  He  picked  up  a  little  fragment  of  pure  silicon 
and  held  it  up  to  the  sun.  "So  many  hidden  won- 
ders. .  .  ."  He  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

In  the  middle  of  the  path,  in  a  pocket  of  sand  round 
which  the  storm  water  had  swirled,  one  of  the  lily- 
like  flowers  of  Africa  had  thrust  its  spiky  leaves.  The 
rain  and  sun  had  nursed  it  into  sudden  bloom,  and 
the  pale  cups  drooped  at  his  feet.  "In  this  way,"  he 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  173 

thought,  "the  whole  world  praises  God.  Behold  the 
lilies  of  the  field.  .  .  ." 

His  first  instinct  was  to  pick  the  flower;  but  on 
second  thoughts  he  had  left  it,  hoping  that  Eva  would 
see  it  also  on  her  way  down.  He  passed  for  a  little 
while  between  close  walls  of  tall  grasses  on  the  edge 
of  the  bush.  Through  this  channel  a  clean  wind  moved 
with  a  silky  sound,  and  its  movement  gave  to  the  air, 
newly  washed  by  rain,  a  feeling  of  buoyancy  and  free- 
dom, a  quality  which  was  almost  hopeful.  It  was  a 
wonderful  thing,  he  thought,  to  be  alive  and  well. 
His  soul  was  full  of  thankfulness. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  church.  Hamisi  was  not 
there,  and  so  he  settled  down  comfortably  to  toll  the 
bell  himself.  The  incident  would  be  an  amusing  one 
to  write  home  about  There  were  many  little  things 
like  that  in  Mackay's  letters.  From  that  high  slope 
the  note  of  the  bell  would  penetrate  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  and  soon  his  congregation  would  appear,  the 
men  in  their  decent  gowns  of  white,  the  women  in 
their  shawls  of  amerikani  print,  the  bright-eyed,  pot- 
bellied children.  And  this  was  a  new  beginning.  .  .  . 

He  tolled  the  bell  until  his  watch  showed  the  time 
to  be  five  minutes  short  of  the  hour,  but  up  to  this 
time  none  of  his  congregation  had  appeared.  He  began 
to  feel  a  little  nervous  and  puzzled.  It  couldn't  be 
that  he  had  mistaken  the  hour,  for  the  Waluguru  took 
their  time  from  his  chapel  bell.  He  wondered  if,  by 
some  ridiculous  miscalculation,  he  had  mistaken  the 
day.  The  idea  was  grotesque.  And  yet  when  he  was 
ill  he  had  missed  two  whole  days  as  completely  as  if 


174  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

he  had  been  lying  dead.  No  ...  it  couldn't  be  that. 
Only  the  day  before  he  had  verified  it.  It  was  Sun- 
day. He  remembered  the  text  on  the  German  calen- 
dar, which  he  had  struggled  to  translate,  and  above 
the  number  of  the  day  the  little  concave  shape  of  the 
new  moon.  He  remembered  telling  Eva  that  the 
weather  would  be  likely  to  change. 

At  ten  o'clock  exactly  he  entered  the  church.  Eva 
was  sitting  there  in  her  usual  place;  otherwise  the 
building  was  empty.  It  smelt  stale  and  slightly  musty 
with  the  odour  of  black  flesh.  He  remembered  sud- 
denly that  once  before  he  had  entered  an  empty  church 
that  smelt  like  that.  Where  or  when,  he  couldn't 
imagine  .  .  .  either  in  some  other  life  or  in  a  dream. 
The  coincidence  made  him  shiver. 

And  Eva  was  sitting  there,  very  pale.  When  he 
stalked  past  her  her  lips  moved  in  a  piteous  shape, 
as  if  she  wanted  to  speak  or  to  cry.  But  he  would 
not  stay  for  her  to  speak.  He  went  straight  to  his 
desk  and  began  to  read  the  form  of  worship  which 
their  own  Church  prescribed,  just  as  if  he  might  have 
been  conducting  a  service  in  the  small  stone  chapel 
at  Far  Forest.  For  Eva  this  was  a  very  terrible  ex- 
perience. It  seemed  to  her  somehow  unreasonable  to 
prolong  what  she  could  only  think  of  as  an  elaborate 
and  insane  pantomime.  She  felt  that,  after  all,  it 
would  have  been  so  much  simpler  for  her  to  explain, 
to  take  him  aside  and  tell  him  that  this  was  nothing 
but  a  freakish  demonstration  of  the  power  of  Godo- 
vius,  a  hint  to  her  of  the  kind  of  torture  which  it 
would  be  easy  for  him  to  employ.  But  James  spared 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  175 

her  nothing.  Instead  of  the  familiar  Swahili  words, 
they  sang  together  a  hymn  of  Moody  and  Sankey, 
which  had  been  a  favourite  of  her  father's,  a  weari- 
some business  of  six  long  verses.  The  performance 
nearly  did  for  her.  All  the  time  she  was  ridiculously 
conscious  of  the  feebleness  of  their  two  voices  in  that 
empty,  echoing  church.  She  was  almost  driven  to 
distraction  by  the  impersonality  of  James.  "After- 
wards I  will  tell  him,"  she  thought.  She  wanted  to 
tell  him  there  and  then,  but  the  immense  force  of 
tradition  restrained  her.  It  wouldn't  have  been  any 
use  for  her  to  tell  him :  for  the  time  he  was  no  longer 
her  brother — only  a  ministering  priest  rapt  in  the 
service  of  his  Deity.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  felt 
more  irreligious.  No  vestige  of  the  illusion  of  re- 
ligion could  overcome  the  excitement  of  her  own  fear. 
Reading  alternate  verses  they  recited  a  psalm  of 
David,  a  passionate  song  against  idolaters ;  and  a  little 
of  the  passion  came  through  into  the  voice  of  James, 
so  that  he  spoke  less  precisely  than  usual,  like  a  peasant 
of  Far  Forest,  forgetting  the  accent  which  the  train- 
ing college  had  taught  him.  His  voice  rose  and  fell 
and  echoed  in  the  little  church : 

"Insomuch  that  they  worshipped  their  idols,  which 
turned  to  their  own  decay;  yea,  they  offered  their 
sons  and  their  daughters  unto  devils." 

And  she  heard  herself  reply: 

"And  shed  innocent  blood,  even  the  blood  of  their 
sons  and  their  daughters;  whom  they  offered  unto 


176  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  idols  of  Canaan;  and  the  land  was  defiled  with 
blood." 

— heard  her  own  voice,  lowered  and  reverentially  un- 
real. She  supposed  that  women  always  spoke  like  that 
in  church;  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  hurting  the  words 
they  spoke.  She  was  thankful  when  the  psalm  was 
over. 

And  then  James  prayed.  In  their  denomination 
the  long  extempore  prayer  was  an  important  part  of 
the  service,  and  ministers  were  apt  to  acquire  a  rather 
dangerous  fluency.  But  that  morning  James  was  in- 
spired, if  ever  a  man  was  inspired,  with  religious 
ecstasy.  He  wrestled  with  God.  In  his  words,  in 
the  commonplaces  of  religious  phrase,  glowed  a  pas- 
sion to  which  she  could  not  be  wholly  insensible.  She 
pitied  him  .  .  .  pitied  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
God  must  surely  pity  a  man  whose  soul  was  so  abased 
and  in  such  agony.  At  times  he  rose  to  something 
that  was  very  like  eloquence.  One  phrase  she  always 
remembered.  He  had  been  speaking  of  Africa — that 
sombre  and  mighty  continent  and  its  vast  recesses  of 
gloom — and  then  he  burst  into  a  sudden  and  fervent 
appeal  for  light,  for  a  cleansing  light  which  might 
penetrate  not  only  Africa  but  "these  dark  continents 
of  my  heart.  .  .  ."  The  dark  continents  of  my  heart. 
Those  were  the  words  which  she  remembered  in  after 
days. 

For  a  little  while  he  knelt  in  silence,  praying,  and 
then,  hurriedly,  he  left  the  church  before  she  knew 
what  he  was  doing.  She  put  out  her  hand  to  detain 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  177 

him,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  said :  "Not  now,  Eva, 
not  now.  .  .  ." 

She  was  left  standing  alone  at  the  door  of  the 
church.  No  other  soul  was  near.  In  the  mid-day 
quiet  of  the  bush  she  heard  a  small  bird  singing.  It 
was  a  rain-bird,  and  its  simple  song  of  three  descend- 
ing notes  subtly  wooed  her  dazed  mind  to  a  remem- 
brance of  the  bells  of  the  little  church  at  Mamble, 
whose  homely  music  floats  above  the  wooded  valleys 
to  the  green  beyond  Far  Forest.  And  in  a  moment 
of  vision  she  was  assailed  by  the  tender,  wistful  at- 
mosphere of  a  Sunday  in  the  March  of  Wales,  where 
simple  people  and  children  were  perhaps  at  that  mo- 
ment moving  to  church  between  the  apple  orchards, 
and  men  were  standing  in  their  shirt-sleeves  at  their 
garden  gates.  A  gust  of  warm  wind  swept  through 
the  bush,  carrying  with  it  the  odour  of  aromatic 
brushwood.  It  was  this  scent  that  broke  and  dis- 
pelled her  dream. 

ii 

Above  all  other  things  James  wanted  to  be  alone, 
not  in  his  church  nor  in  the  horror  of  the  forest,  but 
in  his  own  room  at  the  mission.  He  passed  swiftly 
over  the  path  which  he  had  followed  that  morning 
so  happily;  he  entered  the  empty  mission-house  and 
locked  himself  in  his  bedroom.  The  sudden  disillu- 
sionment which  had  come  to  him  in  the  empty  church 
had  overwhelmed  him ;  but  when  the  first  shock  of  the 
incident  had  passed  and  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  with  his 


178  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

hands  pressed  to  his  eyes,  conscious  only  of  the  ex- 
treme heat  and  of  his  throbbing  pulse,  he  suddenly 
found  himself  able  to  think  more  clearly.  In  spite  of 
his  passion  he  was  almost  calm.  He  realised,  in  the 
hardest  terms,  that  he  was  facing  a  power  which  might 
be  the  ruin  of  his  mission;  that  he  wasn't  merely 
opposed  by  the  vast  apathy  of  Africa,  but  by  some- 
thing definite  and  appallingly  strong.  He  saw  that 
his  real  troubles  were  beginning;  that,  even  if  he 
failed,  he  had  got  to  fight.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  had  been  forced  to  stand  with  his  back 
to  the  wall. 

Already  he  had  a  suspicion  of  the  cause  of  the 
trouble.  The  problem  towards  which  M'Crae  had 
been  attracted  in  his  amateur  studies  of  ethnology  by 
the  stories  of  the  Masai  was  presented  to  James  for 
solution,  with  no  evidence  beyond  the  few  dark  hints 
which  he  had  gathered  in  his  work  among  the  Walu- 
guru  and  the  collateral  testimony,  the  significance  of 
which  he  had  hardly  realised  before,  present  in  the 
only  book  with  which  he  was  intimately  acquainted: 
his  Bible.  But  already  he  had  picked  up  the  scent. 
A  lucky  mischance,  the  purest  accident  in  the  world, 
had  arranged  that  the  psalm  which  he  had  chosen 
for  the  day's  service  had  been  the  hundred  and  sixth. 
In  the  idolatry  of  the  children  of  Israel,  which  the 
Psalmist  so  passionately  lamented,  he  found  a  signi- 
ficant parallel.  In  a  little  while  his  imagination  was 
at  work.  He  sat  at  the  table,  turning  over  the  worn 
pages  of  his  Bible,  finding  everywhere  in  the  songs 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  179 

of  the  prophets  words  which  strengthened  his  incred- 
ible surmise. 

The  new  moon.  .  .  .  That  was  the  key  to  his  sus- 
picions. A  number  of  sinister  remembrances  came 
to  reinforce  the  idea.  He  remembered  the  young  girl 
in  the  Waluguru  village  who  had  disappeared  about 
the  time  of  the  new  moon.  He  remembered  the  story 
of  the  boy  Onyango,  who  had  said  that  on  the  night 
of  the  new  moon  the  Waluguru  would  kill  him  if  he 
were  found  in  the  forest.  He  remembered,  astonished 
that  he  should  not  have  noticed  it  before,  the  name 
of  that  smooth  mountain  and  of  the  house  of  Godo- 
vius  itself.  The  moon.  .  .  .  He  wondered  how  he 
could  have  been  so  blind.  And  the  heathen  inhabi- 
tants of  Canaan  worshipped  the  moon  in  abominable 
rites.  Ashtoreth,  the  Goddess  of  Groves,  was  a  moon 
deity.  And  Moloch.  .  .  .  Who  was  Moloch?  The 
Bible  would  tell  him;  and  most  of  all  his  own  pas- 
sionate prophets.  He  opened  Isaiah. 

"Bring  no  more  vain  oblations:  incense  is  an  abom- 
ination unto  me;  the  new  moons  and  sabbaths,  the 
calling  of  assemblies  I  cannot  away  with;  it  is  in- 
iquity, even  the  solemn  meeting. 

"Your  new  moons  and  your  appointed  feasts  my 
soul  hateth;  they  are  a  trouble  to  me;  I  am  weary 
to  bear  them.  .  .  /' 

Someone  was  knocking  at  the  door.  He  supposed 
it  was  Eva.  Well,  Eva  must  wait.  He  was  sorry 
for  her ;  he  would  explain  later.  He  came  to  the  door 
and  spoke.  He  was  astonished  at  the  steadiness  of 


i8o  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

his  own  voice.  He  said :  "Don't  be  frightened  and 
please  don't  disturb  me.  I  must  be  alone  to-day." 

"But  your  door  was  locked.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
if  I  could.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Later,  later.  .  .  .  Not  now." 

She  told  him  that  his  dinner  was  nearly  ready. 

"I  don't  want  food,"  he  said.  "Don't  think  I'm 
doing  anything  desperate.  I'm  not.  I  only  want  to 
think.  Now  be  a  good  girl.  .  .  ." 

Baal  and  Ashtoreth  and  Moloch.  .  .  .  He  wished 
that  he  could  go  into  the  library  at  college  and  look 
the  business  up.  In  those  days  he  had  never  taken 
that  sort  of  thing  seriously.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
so  utterly  divorced  from  the  spiritual  needs  of  the 
present  day. 

A  strange  people,  the  Waluguru.  He  remembered 
that  once  Godovius  had  told  him  that  they  were  of 
Semitic  blood,  a  remnant  of  those  Sabaeans  whose 
queen  had  corrupted  the  court  of  Solomon,  a  fair- 
skinned  people  who  had  sailed  to  Africa  for  gold. 
And  Godovius  was  a  Jew.  ...  It  was  plausible, 
plausible.  And  yet,  in  these  days  .  .  . 

For  all  that,  the  Jews  had  never  failed  to  be  at- 
tracted by  the  worship  of  lascivious  Syrian  deities. 
Ahaz,  he  remembered,  who  "burnt  incense  in  the  val- 
ley of  Hinnom  and  burnt  his  children  in  the  fire  after 
the  abominations  of  the  heathen.  .  .  .  He  sacrificed 
also  and  burnt  incense  in  the  high  places  and  on  the 
hills  and  under  every  green  tree." 

"The  high  places  and  on  the  hills.  .  .  ."  Kilima  ja 
Mweze:  the  hill  of  the  moon. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  181 

He  remembered  the  denunciations  of  the  prophet 
Ezekiel :  "For  when  I  brought  them  into  the  land  for 
the  which  I  lifted  up  my  hand  to  give  it  to  them,  then 
they  saw  every  high  hill  and  all  the  thick  trees,  and 
they  offered  there  their  sacrifices.  .  .  .  Thou  hast 
built  thy  high  place  at  the  head  of  every  way  and 
hast  made  thy  beauty  to  be  abhorred,  and  hast  opened 
thy  feet  to  every  one  that  passed  by,  and  multiplied 
thy  whoredoms." 

And  then,  with  a  chilly  heart,  he  passed  from  these 
prophecies  to  the  awful  legends  of  Tophet  and  the 
sacrifice  of  children  in  the  fires  of  Moloch.  These  pas- 
sages, in  their  mystery,  had  always  seemed  to  him 
among  the  most  terrible  in  the  Old  Testament.  He 
seemed  to  remember  a  lecture  in  which  he  had  been 
told  that  Moloch  was  the  male  counterpart  of  Ash- 
toreth  or  Astarte,  the  great  goddess  of  fertility;  that 
the  worship  of  both,  and  the  licentious  rites  with  which 
their  mysteries  were  celebrated  on  Syrian  hill-tops, 
were  really  ceremonies  of  homoeopathic  magic  by  the 
practice  of  which  the  fertility  of  fields  and  cattle  might 
be  increased. 

So  far,  at  any  rate,  the  planter,  Godovius,  if  he 
believed  in  any  such  superstitions,  had  an  object.  But 
there  must  be  more  in  it  than  this.  It  was  possible 
that  in  his  role  of  hierophant  he  might  be  able  to 
exert  a  more  terrible  power  over  his  slaves,  the  Walu- 
guru.  A  man  will  do  almost  anything  for  the  lust 
of  power;  and  one  presupposed  that  Godovius  was  in 
some  way  a  psychopathic  and  a  megalomaniac.  Those 
were  the  two  types  of  mind  in  which  the  moral  de- 


182  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

cadence  of  modern  Germany  had  been  most  produc- 
tive. Was  this  the  ecstasy  which  had  won  him  the 
name  of  Sakharani?  Or  was  it  a  simpler,  more 
crudely  carnal  passion,  for  which  this  worship  gave 
him  an  excuse,  a  celebration  of  those  phallic  rites 
with  which  the  Cilician  high  places  had  been  defiled? 
"Soon,  at  any  rate,  I  shall  know,"  he  thought.  Per- 
haps the  Waluguru,  whom  the  boy  Onyango  had 
feared,  would  kill  him,  before  he  had  surprised  their 
secret.  For  a  long  time  he  lay  on  his  bed  contemplat- 
ing the  dangers  of  his  new  duty.  And  then,  for  a 
long  time,  he  prayed. 


in 

Now,  at  any  cost,  he  was  determined  to  see  for 
himself.  Nothing  must  stand  between  him  and  his 
duty.  This  was  a  man's  work.  He  decided  that  Eva 
must  have  no  part  in  it;  and  so,  a  little  later  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  fiercer  heat  of  the  day  was  wan- 
ing, he  left  his  locked  room  by  way  of  the  folding 
windows  and  took  his  way  towards  the  forest.  This 
time  he  went  there  with  none  of  the  vague  terrors 
which  had  troubled  him  before:  apart  from  a  sus- 
picion of  shame  in  his  deliberate  secrecy,  he  had  no 
misgivings.  He  was  happy  to  find  himself  so  firm 
in  his  purpose,  thankful  that  the  fever  had  left  him 
free  to  meet  this  ordeal. 

By  the  time  of  sunset  he  had  reached  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  in  the  very  hour  at  which  its  life  awakened. 
As  he  passed  into  its  shadow  he  was  conscious  of  this, 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  183 

as  of  a  faint  stirring  in  many  millions  of  awakened 
leaves  suddenly  aware  of  his  presence.  In  this  he 
found  nothing  sinister.  He  was  only  filled  with  a 
wonder  which  had  never  come  to  him  in  moments 
less  intense  at  the  existence  of  these  countless  multi- 
tudes of  green  living  creatures  to  whom  the  power 
of  motion  was  denied.  He  was  impressed  with  the  pa- 
tience and  helplessness  of  vegetable  life,  seeing  an  aged 
and  enormous  tree  strangled  where  it  grew  by  the 
writhing  coils  of  some  green  parasite.  And  yet  it 
seemed  to  him  that  life  must  be  far  easier  for  a  tree 
than  for  a  man.  A  light  breeze,  herald  of  the  eve- 
ning, threw  the  plumes  of  the  forest  edge  into  tossing 
confusion.  The  ways  of  the  wood  were  full  of  gentle 
sound. 

And  suddenly  it  was  dark.  He  was  on  the  edge 
of  the  nearest  Waluguru  village,  the  "home  of  the  mis- 
sion boy,  Hamisi.  He  did  not  want  all  the  people 
of  the  forest  to  know  of  his  errand;  but  blundering 
in  the  dark  he  found  himself  under  the  shadow  of 
their  bandas,  and  seeing  that  concealment  was  useless, 
he  entered  the  circle  of  the  village.  The  sound  of  his 
step  set  up  a  small  commotion  among  their  goats, 
who  were  folded  within  a  boma  of  thorns,  but  no 
human  shape  came  to  welcome  him  in  the  village.  He 
went  to  the  door  of  the  headman's  hut,  expecting  to 
find  the  man  M'zinga,  who  had  stolen  his  chisel.  But 
M'zinga  was  not  there,  nor  any  of  the  wives  of 
M'zinga.  And  this  struck  him  as  strange;  for  only 
a  little  time  before  the  youngest  of  these  women  had 
given  birth  to  a  baby,  whom  it  was  his  ambition  to 


184  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

baptize.  He  tried  another  hut.  All  were  empty.  The 
village  was  empty  and  stank  more  foully  than  if  it 
had  been  crammed  with  Waluguru.  It  was  as  if  some 
plague  had  stricken  its  people,  leaving  nothing  behind 
but  the  stench  of  corruption. 

He  pushed  on.  In  a  little  while  he  came  to  the 
M'ssente  river,  whose  crossings  he  now  knew  so  well. 
By  this  time  his  eyes  were  becoming  accustomed  to 
the  gloom  of  the  forest,  so  that  when  he  came  to  the 
felled  tree  which  served  him  for  a  bridge  he  was 
astonished  at  the  amount  of  light  which  still  lingered 
in  the  sky  and  its  faint  reflections  cast  upwards  from 
that  swift,  dark  water.  Lingering  here  a  moment, 
entranced  by  the  sound  of  the  stream  and  the  glimpse 
of  open  sky,  his  eye  was  surprised  by  a  sudden  gleam 
of  silver.  It  was  the  broken  image  of  the  new  moon's 
silver  sickle.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky  in  which 
that  pale  and  lovely  shape  was  rising.  He  watched 
her  sailing  upwards  through  the  indigo  air.  And 
while  he  watched,  it  seemed  to  him  that  other  eyes 
must  have  seen  her.  In  the  distance,  over  towards 
Kilima  ja  Mweze,  he  heard  the  throbbing  of  a  drum. 

At  length  he  came  to  the  village  at  which  he  had 
first  surprised  the  devil  dance.  This,  too,  was  empty, 
empty  and  stinking.  He  wondered  why  it  was  that 
Waluguru  villages  smelt  so  horrible  at  night.  Where 
had  the  people  of  all  these  villages  assembled?  The 
words  of  Isaiah  returned  to  him:  "The  new  moons 
and  sabbaths,  the  calling  of  assemblies  I  cannot  away 
with.  Your  new  moons  and  your  appointed  feasts 
my  soul  hateth."  And  the  baffling  sound  of  drums 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  185 

drew  nearer.  On  every  side  he  heard  the  throbbing 
of  drums.  It  was  as  though  all  the  drums  of  Africa 
had  been  gathered  together  for  this  assembly.  Every 
moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  night  grew  more 
suffocating.  He  felt  afraid  of  the  darkness,  as  chil- 
dren are  afraid.  .  .  . 

He  had  come  to  that  thinner  zone  of  the  forest  in 
which  the  terraced  walks  which  had  puzzled  Eva  be- 
gan. And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  wood  was 
full  of  more  than  shadows.  On  every  side  of  him, 
in  the  darkness,  he  heard  the  rustle  of  bodies  moving 
through  the  leaves.  He  was  conscious  of  the  smell 
of  the  castor  oil  with  which  the  Waluguru  smear 
their  limbs.  Sometimes  he  heard  the  sound  of  heavy 
breathing  and  once  or  twice  a  laugh  or  a  stifled  cry. 
A  terrible  and  bewildering  experience.  He  could  see 
nothing;  and  yet  he  knew  that  the  darkness  was 
crowded  with  men  and  women  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
who  heeded  him  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  a 
shadow,  and  were  as  intangible  as  shadows  them- 
selves. 

Nor  was  this  all;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  this 
atmosphere  of  hidden  evil — for  assuredly  it  was  a 
devilish  thing — aroused  in  him  a  curious  excitement. 
It  was  as  though  there  were  in  his  composition  nerve- 
endings  of  which  his  senses  had  never  been  cognisant, 
and  his  mind  never  master,  which  were  responding 
against  his  will  to  these  ancient  and  most  subtle  stim- 
uli. He  didn't  feel  sure  of  the  self  of  which  he 
thought  he  had  explored  the  utmost  hidden  recesses. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  hypnotic  influence  of  the  drums' 


186  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

monotonous  rhythm;  perhaps  some  special  enchant- 
ment hidden  in  this  darkness  full  of  whispers  and 
breathings  and  stifled  cries.  He  understood  now  what 
the  old  writers  had  experienced  when  they  invented 
a  devil,  an  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  evil.  He  wanted 
to  turn  his  back  and  run  away  from  the  whole  ad- 
venture. He  lay  in  the  grass  and  prayed. 

Thus  fortified,  he  struggled  on,  climbing  the  zigzag 
path  which  skirted  the  Sabsean  terraces.  In  the  act  of 
climbing  he  was  happily  less  conscious  of  that  popu- 
lous darkness.  In  front  of  him  many  lights  flickered 
through  the  trees.  The  noise  of  the  drums  grew  very 
near.  Suddenly,  rounding  a  corner  in  the  twisting 
way,  he  found  himself  on  the  edge  of  an  open  ex- 
panse, a  wide  shoulder  of  the  hill,  from  which  the 
light  had  come.  For  fear  of  being  discovered  he 
dropped  down  on  his  stomach  in  the  grass.  He  slipped, 
and  the  blades  at  which  he  clutched  cut  his  hands.  In 
the  middle  of  that  shoulder  of  the  hill  stood  the  cir- 
cular building  of  undressed  stone  which  had  aston- 
ished Eva  on  the  night  of  her  visit  to  the  House  of 
the  Moon;  but  here  there  was  no  longer  mystery  or 
desertion;  the  open  ground  was  crowded  with  black 
men  and  women.  From  fiis  place  of  concealment  in 
the  spear-grass  he  could  look  straight  through  the 
gateway  in  the  outer  wall  to  the  circular  kiln  which 
rose  in  the  centre  of  the  building.  Here  a  fierce  fire 
of  wood  was  burning,  the  core,  indeed,  of  all  that 
buzzing  activity.  Towards  it  the  men  and  women  of 
the  Waluguru,  whom  he  had  heard  moving  and  pant- 
ing in  the  darkness,  were  carrying  bundles  of  dry 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  187 

fuel.  They  ran  to  and  fro  like  the  black  ants,  which 
the  Swahili  call  maji  ya  moto  (boiling  water),  from 
the  seething  noise  which  they  make  when  they  are  dis- 
turbed. Even  so  this  welter  of  the  Waluguru  boiled 
and  sweated;  and  to  add  to  the  fantastic  horror  of 
the  scene,  which  resembled  some  ancient  picture  of 
a  corner  in  hell,  the  flames  in  the  central  kiln  crackled 
and  flared,  casting  immense  shadows  from  the  black 
forms  which  leapt  around  them,  flinging  tongues  of 
light  to  search  the  dark  sky  and  lighten  the  swaying 
crowns  of  the  forest  trees.  Sometimes,  in  this  upper 
darkness,  the  vagrant  lights  would  pick  out  the  wings 
of  pale  birds  that  fluttered  there.  These  were  the 
doves  which  had  nested  within  crevices  of  the  walls. 
But  what  most  deeply  filled  the  heart  of  James  with 
dread  was  the  expression  of  the  faces  of  the  naked 
men  and  women  who  danced  about  the  flame.  They 
were  not  the  faces,  the  pitiable  human  masks  of  the 
Waluguru,  but  the  faces  of  devils.  He  saw  the  trans- 
formed features  of  men  whom  he  knew  well :  the 
mouth  of  the  mission  boy  Hamisi,  opened  wide  in 
horrible  laughter,  the  red  eyes  of  the  headman, 
M'zinga.  M'zinga  was  carrying  the  stolen  chisel,  wav- 
ing it  as  his  muscles  twitched  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
drums.  He  danced  right  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  kiln, 
then  suddenly  collapsed  before  it,  hacking  at  himself 
with  the  sharpened  edge  till  his  legs  streamed  with 
blood.  James  could  not  see  the  end  of  this  horror, 
for  a  company  of  sweating  fuel-bearers  from  the 
depths  of  the  forest  swarmed  before  him,  pushing  the 
crowd  to  right  and  left  They  threw  the  branches 


i88  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

which  they  had  carried  on  the  fire.  There  followed 
a  hissing  of  sap,  for  the  boughs  were  green,  and  a 
cloud  of  smoke  spouted  from  the  chimney  of  the  kiln. 
At  the  crackling  of  the  furnace  the  fuel-bearers 
shouted  for  joy,  scattering  in  the  crowd  of  women, 
some  of  whom  they  dragged  away  into  the  edge  of 
the  forest.  The  acrid  wood-smoke  made  the  eyes  of 
James  smart. 

And  now  the  furnace  was  so  heated  that  the  stones 
which  lined  it  shone  with  a  white  heat.  No  more 
loads  of  fuel  were  brought  to  it  from  the  outer  woods, 
and  though  the  drumming  never  ceased,  it  seemed  as 
though  the  wilder  ecstasy  of  the  dancers  had  worn 
itself  out.  They  lay  stretched  out,  many  of  them,  on 
the  sandy  ground  in  attitudes  of  abandonment  and 
fatigue,  their  sweaty  bodies  shining  like  wet  ebony. 
James  noticed  a  thing  which  he  had  not  seen  before: 
a  group  of  women,  swathed  in  the  black  cloth,  which 
the  Waluguru  affect,  who  had  been  sitting  patiently 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  opening  in  the  temple  wall. 
The  nearest  of  them  he  recognised  as  that  slim  girl 
the  wife  of  the  headman  M'zinga;  in  her  arms,  held 
tightly  to  her  breast,  she  carried  her  baby.  From  time 
to  time  she  covered  it  with  her  black  cotton  cloth  to 
shield  its  face  from  the  scorching  fire. 

Already  James  had  guessed  what  was  coming. 
Standing  at  the  side  of  the  furnace  door,  he  saw  a 
tall  man  in  white.  He  heard  a  whisper  of  the  word 
SakJwrani  .  .  .  Sakharani.  In  a  moment  another  fig- 
ure had  leapt  out  into  the  light.  It  was  the  headman, 
M'zinga,  still  dripping  blood  from  his  most  terrible 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  189 

mutilation.  He  pulled  his  baby  from  the  arms  of  its 
mother.  She  clung  to  it,  but  the  other  women  tore 
at  her  arms,  and  the  rest  of  the  Waluguru  snarled. 
He  held  the  child  high  above  his  head  in  the  face  of 
the  furnace.  The  Waluguru  shouted.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  sacrifice  of  Ashtoreth  was  forgotten.  And 
the  white  figure  of  Godovius  was  Moloch,  the  king. 


CHAPTER  XI 


TIT"  HEN  Eva,  resolved  on  confession,  had  come 
to  the  door  of  her  brother's  room  and  knocked, 
she  had  not  been  altogether  surprised  at  his  anxiety 
to  be  left  alone.  James  had  always  been  like  that, 
and  she  knew  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
disturbing  him.  Through  the  heat  of  that  peerless 
afternoon  she  waited.  But  when  the  evening  came 
and  he  had  not  yet  emerged  from  his  chosen  soli- 
tude, she  began  to  be  more  anxious.  Even  if  he  were 
in  a  state  of  extreme  spiritual  depression,  starvation 
wouldn't  improve  matters.  It  had  always  been  a  great 
part  of  her  function  in  life  to  see  that  he  was  prop- 
erly supplied  with  food  and  raiment  and  all  the  phys- 
ical comforts  which  his  spirit  so  heartly  despised,  and 
even  in  this  extremity  her  thoughts  moved  in  the 
accustomed  channel.  Seeing  herself,  as  from  a  dis- 
tance, pursuing  these  eminently  practical  affairs,  she 
was  even  faintly  thankful  that  she  had  still  the  dis- 
traction of  her  habitual  activities.  She  went  into  the 
garden  to  find  the  boys.  Onyango  was  there  alone, 
sleeping  in  the  sun.  She  woke  him,  and  in  a  little 
while  he  returned,  bringing  with  him  a  yellow  gourd 
full  of  the  thin  milk  of  the  country.  She  boiled  a 
little  of  this  over  her  fire  of  sticks,  and  took  it  to  the 

190 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  191 

door  of  James'  room.  This  time  there  was  no  answer. 
Perhaps,  she  thought,  he  was  asleep.  Av  blessed  relief 
from  all  his  troubles. 

Two  hours  later  she  knocked  again,  and  when, 
again,  she  received  no  reply,  she  suddenly  took  fright. 
She  wasn't  afraid  that  he  had  done  anything  very 
desperate:  she  knew  that  his  religious  sense  was  too 
strong  for  this :  but  she  knew  that  he  was  the  lightest 
of  sleepers,  and  his  silence  suggested  to  her  a  return 
of  the  illness  which  had  robbed  him  of  consciousness 
before.  She  remembered  so  well  the  ghastly  sight 
which  he  had  presented  to  her  on  that  day,  when  he 
had  laid  on  his  back  with  his  eyes  staring  at  the  ceil- 
ing, breathing  stertorously.  She  listened  carefully  at 
the  door,  trying  to  hear  if  he  were  breathing  like  that 
now.  She  remembered  her  despair  on  that  terrible 
night  and  the  callous  unconcern  of  Godovius,  and  her 
thoughts  turned  gratefully  to  M'Crae.  Now,  thank 
heaven,  she  was  not  quite  alone.  She  tried  the  door 
and  found  that  it  was  bolted.  The  window.  ...  It 
opened  on  to  the  stoep  at  the  place  where  the  great 
bougainvillea  hung  in  thick  festoons,  mitigating  kind- 
ly the  whiteness  of  the  light.  At  her  passage  a  flight 
of  nectarinidae  passed  with  whirring  wings.  The  win- 
dow stood  open.  The  room  was  empty  .  .  .  that  lit- 
tle room  of  James',  pathetic  in  its  bareness,  with  no 
ornamentation  but  a  cabinet  photograph  of  old  Aaron 
Burwarton  and  the  coloured  texts  which  James  him- 
self had  achieved  in  his  schooldays.  On  the  table  lay 
the  open  Bible  and  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  James 
had  scribbled  texts.  If  she  had  looked  up  the  refer- 


192  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ences  she  might  have  discovered  a  series  of  obvious 
clues  to  the  mystery  of  his  new  adventure.  But  she 
didn't  She  folded  the  paper  and  closed  the  Bible. 
She  saw  that  he  had  lain  on  the  bed,  and  even  while 
she  wondered  what  could  have  happened  to  him,  she 
was  smoothing  the  sheets  and  putting  the  creased  bed- 
clothes in  order.  She  was  only  thankful  that  he  was 
not  ill.  It  didn't  so  much  concern  her  where  he  had 
gone ;  for  it  was  a  very  rare  thing  for  James  to  invite 
her  confidence  in  his  plans.  Even  at  Far  Forest  he 
would  often  annoy  her  by  an  air  of  secrecy  which 
emphasised  his  importance.  So  when  she  had  put 
his  room,  that  scene  of  so  recent  a  spiritual  anguish, 
in  order,  she  sighed,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen  with 
her  cup  of  milk. 

All  that  afternoon  she  did  not  go  to  M'Crae.  Since 
the  day  on  which  Godovius  had  threatened  her  she 
had  never  been  quite  comfortable  with  him.  She  had 
felt  an  awkwardness  which  it  was  hard  to  explain: 
almost  as  if  M'Crae  were  aware  of  the  character  which 
Godovius  had  given  to  their  relation.  In  some  subtle 
way  it  seemed  that  the  frankness  of  their  first  friend- 
ship had  been  spoiled.  That  was  how  she  put  it  to 
herself;  but  the  more  probable  reason  for  their  awk- 
wardness was  the  fact  that  he  knew  that  she  was  ex- 
cluding him  from  her  confidence  and  would  not  say 
so.  She  would  not  admit  to  herself  that  she,  more 
directly  than  Godovius,  was  responsible  for  the 
strained  atmosphere. 

In  a  very  little  while  night  fell.  Still  James  did  not 
come;  and  this  seemed  to  her  unusual,  for  the  thorn 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  193 

bush  about  Luguru  is  no  place  for  a  man  to  wander 
in  at  night.  From  her  chair  in  front  of  their  living- 
room  window  on  the  stoep  she  watched  the  rising  of 
the  moon.  At  that  very  moment  James  was  crossing 
the  M'ssente  River.  A  beautiful  slip  of  a  thing  she 
seemed  to  Eva,  and  of  an  amazing  brilliance.  Even 
before  her  shining  sickle  had  floated  above  Kilima  ja 
Mweze  the  sky  was  flooded  with  a  pale  radiance,  and 
the  outlines  of  the  trees  which  climbed  the  sky-line 
and  had  already  been  merged  in  the  soft  darkness  of 
the  mountain's  bulk  grew  suddenly  distinct  .  .  . 
Then  the  restless  noises  of  the  night  began.  Eva  felt 
suddenly  and  rather  hopelessly  alone.  She  was  not 
very  happy  in  the  dark. 

Now  she  would  not  have  to  wait  very  long  for 
James.  No  doubt,  too,  he  would  be  hungry.  She 
went  into  the  house  and  laid  the  table  for  supper. 
After  all,  one  must  eat.  On  the  table  she  placed  a 
single  lighted  candle.  Then  she  pulled  on  a  pair  of 
leather  mosquito  boots  to  protect  her  ankles,  and  sat 
there,  waiting,  and  listening  to  the  night.  Far  away 
in  the  forest  she  heard  the  sound  of  drumming.  It 
did  not  bring  to  her  mind  the  sinister  suggestions 
with  which  it  troubled  that  of  James.  But  she  felt 
unhappy,  and,  somehow,  a  little  cold.  She  found 
herself  shivering.  And  just  as  she  had  begun  to  won- 
der if  she,  like  James,  were  on  the  edge  of  the  inevi- 
table fever,  a  strong-winged  moth,  hurling  out  of  the 
darkness  at  her  candle,  put  out  the  flame,  with  a  noise 
of  singeing  wings,  and  left  her  in  darkness. 

It  was  a  small  thing,  but  it  frightened  her.     She 


194  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

relighted  the  candle  and  settled  down  again  to  waiting 
for  James;  but  now  she  found  it  more  difficult  than 
before  to  be  self-contained.  Indeed  this  culmination 
to  her  long  day's  anxiety  had  been  rather  too  much 
for  her;  she  had  tried  too  daringly  to  walk  alone. 
The  incident  of  the  empty  church,  which  at  first  had 
seemed  to  her  no  more  than  a  set-back  to  be  encoun- 
tered, now  returned  to  her  with  a  more  sinister  sug- 
gestion. All  atmospheres  of  that  kind  are  more 
formidable  by  night:  and  this  night  of  Africa,  with 
its  high  and  velvety  sky  in  which  the  crescent  moon 
was  still  ascending,  seemed  peculiarly  vast,  and  alien 
in  its  vastness.  All  the  time,  from  the  recesses  of 
the  forest,  she  heard  the  beating  of  drums. 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  eight.  The 
candle  on  the  supper-table  was  burning  down  with  a 
steady  flame.  James  had  never  in  all  their  life  at 
Luguru  been  as  late  as  this.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
perhaps  she  was  feeling  nervous  just  for  want  of 
food.  She  decided  that  at  the  very  worst  she  would 
not  have  to  wait -much  longer,  and  that  in  any  case 
it  would  be  foolish  to  give  way  to  her  fancies.  And 
then,  at  a  moment  when  she  was  really  feeling  more 
secure,  fear  came  to  her,  as  swiftly  and  blindly  as  the 
moth  which  had  blundered  in  out  of  the  night,  and 
all  her  bravery  was  extinguished.  She  left  the  light 
burning  in  the  room  and  ran  along  the  garden  path 
to  M'Crae's  banda. 

"I  was  frightened,"  she  told  him,  quite  simply.  And 
then  she  told  him  of  the  surprise  at  the  church  that 
morning;  of  how  James  had  left  her  and  locked  him- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  195 

self  in  his  room ;  how  he  had  left  the  mission  and  had 
not  yet  returned.  And  when  once  she  had  begun  to 
tell  him  these  things,  and  had  heard  his  grave  replies 
in  a  voice  that  was  steady  and  devoid  of  fear,  she 
began  to  feel  lighter  and  happier.  When  once  she  had 
managed  to  talk  like  this  she  found  it  wonderfully 
easy  to  go  on,  and  in  a  little  while  she  had  unbosomed 
herself  of  the  whole  story  of  her  meeting  with  Godo- 
vius,  his  entreaties  and  his  threats.  Until  she  had 
ended  he  did  not  speak ;  but  she  knew  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  heard  her  through.  At  the  end  he 
said: 

"You  should  have  told  me.  It  would  have  been 
more  like  you." 

"I  don't  know  .  .  ."  she  said.  "Perhaps  I  was 
ashamed.  I  think  I  was  ashamed.  At  the  sugges- 
tion .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  that  we  were  anything  but 
friends." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "I'm  not  laughing  at  you," 
he  said  quickly. 

"I  know  you're  not.  It  was  silly  of  me.  I  ought 
to  have  trusted  you.  I  wanted  to.  But  I  was  shy, 
I  suppose.  And  shocked  by  the  mistake  that  he'd 
made.  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  suffer  because 
of  his  mistaken  idea.  And  I  was  selfish.  I  couldn't 
bear  the  thought  of  your  not  being  here :  and  I  thought 
that  I  could  somehow  wait  until  things  cleared  up.  I 
thought  I  could  just  keep  it  to  myself  and  hold  on." 

"You  were  wrong.  It  never  pays  to  put  things  off. 
No  doubt  it  was  a  shock  for  you  to  have  it  taken  for 
granted  that  I  had  made  love  to  you.  I  wouldn't 


196  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

have  you  worried  by  that.  I  suppose  I  am  old  enough 
to  be  your  father.  You  mustn't  think  any  more  of 
that." 

Quite  candidly  she  said :  "I  won't."  It  was  no  more 
than  he  expected. 

She  sighed.  "I  am  happier  now,"  she  said.  "I 
can't  tell  you  how  much  I  have  gone  through  in  these 
days."  And  then  her  thoughts  returned  suddenly  to 
her  fears  for  James. 

"You  must  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  don't  feel  as  if 
I  can  do  any  more  thinking.  I've  been  such  a  fail- 
ure when  I  tried  to  do  it.  I  can't  think.  I  don't 
believe  I  can  feel.  I'm  not  like  a  woman  at  all.  I'm 
callous.  No  ...  I'm  not  really  callous,  but  awfully 
tired.  Oh,  what  can  we  do?" 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done  in  the  night,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  know  where  he  went.  In  the  night  we 
are  quite  helpless.  On  the  night  when  you  found  me 
it  was  just  a  matter  of  luck  ...  a  matter  of  Provi- 
dence. When  you  get  to  my  age  you  begin  to  believe 
in  Providence.  If  you  are  lonely  or  frightened  you 
had  better  stay  here  with  me." 

"I'm  not  frightened  now,"  she  said.  "But  .  .  .  but 
I  think  I'll  stay  here." 

M'Crae  made  room  for  her  on  the  heap  of  sisal  be- 
side him.  They  sat  there  for  a  long  time  without 
speaking  amid  the  restless  sounds  which  passed  for 
silence  in  that  night.  In  the  remotest  distance  they 
heard  the  drums  at  Kilima  ja  Mweze.  They  were 
like  the  beating  of  a  savage  heart. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  197 

"I  shouldn't  have  kept  it  all  to  myself,"  she  said 
at  last  "Are  you  very  angry  with  me?" 

He  was  a  long  time  answering  her  childishness. 

"I  couldn't  be  angry  with  you.  You  should  have 
known  that.  But  if  I  had  heard  what  he  said  to  you 
I  should  have  killed  him.  I  couldn't  have  missed  him." 

"Then  I'm  thankful  you  didn't." 

In  the  long  silence  which  followed  her  tiredness 
gradually  overcame  her.  It  was  no  great  wonder  that 
in  a  little  while  she  fell  asleep.  M'Crae,  lying  be- 
side her,  felt  her  tired  limbs  twitch  from  time  to  time, 
as  the  muscles,  conscious  of  the  brain's  waning  con- 
trol, tried  to  keep  awake.  These  feeble  movements 
aroused  in  M'Crae's  mind  an  emotion  which  was 
nearer  to  pity  than  to  anything  else.  They  reminded 
him  of  the  helpless  inco-ordinate  movements  which  he 
had  often  seen  in  the  limbs  of  young  animals.  He 
pitied  her  childishness,  and  loved  it ;  for  he  had  come 
to  an  age  in  which  youth  seems  the  most  pathetic  and 
beautiful  of  all  things.  Gradually  this  restlessness 
ceased.  Eva  sighed  in  her  sleep,  and  the  hand  which 
lay  nearest  to  him  slipped  down  until  it  touched  his 
bare  arm.  In  its  unconsciousness  the  action  was  as 
tender  as  a  caress.  He  permitted  himself  to  be  con- 
scious of  the  hand's  slenderness;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
very  cold.  Gently,  without  disturbing  her  slumber, 
he  lifted  with  his  foot  the  blanket  which  she  had  lent 
him  and  pushed  it  over  her.  Then,  lying  still  in  the 
same  cramped  position,  he  settled  down  to  think. 


198  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ii 

It  was  plain  to  M'Crae  from  the  noise  of  drumming 
which  had  filled  the  forest  all  that  evening  that  some 
great  festival  was  in  progress  at  the  Hill  of  the 
Moon.  Lying  awake  in  his  banda,  he  listened  to  the 
sound.  It  accompanied,  with  its  bourdon  of  men- 
ace, all  the  deliberations  of  that  night.  It  was  now 
evident  to  him  that  if  a  way  were  to  be  found  out  of 
Eva's  difficulties  he  must  find  it  himself;  and  though 
he  had  fought  his  way  often  enough  out  of  a  tight 
corner,  he  had  never  been  faced  with  a  problem  of 
equal  delicacy.  On  the  face  of  it,  the  matter  seemed 
insoluble.  In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  count  on 
James  for  any  behaviour  that  was  not  admirably  per- 
verse. In  any  project  of  escape  James  counted  for 
so  much  dead  weight.  Again,  even  if  James  should 
not  return  from  his  adventure  on  this  night — and 
there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  would  not  do 
so — M'Crae's  peculiar  position  as  a  man  "wanted" 
by  the  German  Colonial  Government  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  be  a  free  agent.  Here,  as  in  most 
things,  Godovius  had  the  whip-hand,  and  however 
gallantly  M'Crae  might  have  desired  to  play  the 
knight-errant  in  the  case  of  Eva,  it  would  always  be 
doubtful  if  her  association  with  him  could  be  of  any 
use.  It  might  even  be  better  for  her  if  he  were  to 
disappear,  as  a  man  with  his  knowledge  of  bush- 
craft  might  conceivably  do,  and  leave  her  unham- 
pered by  his  unfortunate  association.  But  he  couldn't 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  199 

do  that.     For  if  he  left  her,  only  James  would  re- 
main, and  of  what  use  in  the  world  was  James? 

Thinking  the  matter  over  coldly  and  with  delib- 
eration, he  regretted  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  hear 
the  shameful  suggestions  of  Godovius  on  the  evening 
of  the  rains;  for  if  he  had  heard  him  he  would  as- 
suredly have  shot  him  where  he  stood,  and  the  world 
would  have  been  rid  of  another  wild  animal,  as  sav- 
age as  any  beast  in  the  bush  but  without  any  redeem- 
ing dower  of  beauty.  He  would  have  shot  him. 
There  would  have  been  another  murder  to  his  account. 
But  this  time  he  would  not  have  needed  to  change 
his  name,  to  lie  hidden  in  an  opium  house  or  ship 
furtively  under  a  strange  flag.  No  .  .  the  matter 
would  have  been  far  simpler.  He  would  have  stepped 
out  into  the  bush  a  free  man,  and  then  the  vastness 
of  Central  Africa  would  have  swallowed  him  up,  him 
and  his  name.  He  would  have  trekked  to  recesses 
where  no  European  could  have  found  him.  He  would 
simply  have  disappeared.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
lived  for  many  years:  the  M'Craes  were  a  long-lived 
race.  Perhaps  he  would  have  died  soon  and  in  vio- 
lence: it  would  have  made  no  difference.  The  life 
which  he  would  have  led  would  not  have  been  very 
much  more  solitary  than  his  life  had  been  for  the  last 
thirty  years,  except  for  one  thing — the  fact  that  he 
would  be  condemned  to  it  for  ever.  And  here,  even 
though  his  love  for  Africa  was  so  vast  and  varied, 
he  found  that  there  was  more  to  renounce  than  he 
would  have  believed.  For  many  years,  as  he  had 
told  Eva,  the  memory  of  his  early  life  in  Arran  had 


200  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

been  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  memory:  he  had 
never  really  hoped  to  return  to  her  misty  beauty. 
But  now,  when  he  found  himself  faced  by  an  ab- 
solute renunciation  of  the  possibility  of  returning,  he 
couldn't  quite  face  it.  The  sacrifice  would  be  as  final 
as  death.  For  a  short  moment  he  was  troubled  by 
a  vision  of  his  ancient  home :  a  day,  as  chance  would 
have  it,  of  lashing  rain  without  and  the  smell  of  peat 
within.  And  he  knew  that  if  he  did  return  he  would 
have  no  more  part  or  lot  in  the  life  of  that  remote 
island  than  a  ghost  revisiting  the  haunt  of  vanished 
love.  For  a  little  while  the  picture  held  his  fancy: 
and  then,  imperceptibly,  faded.  The  huge  insistence 
of  the  tropical  night,  the  high  note  of  the  cicalas,  the 
whistling  of  the  frogs  rejoicing  in  the  vanishing  mois- 
ture of  the  rains,  recalled  him  to  the  life  which  he  had 
chosen,  and  he  realised  how  imponderable  was  his 
dream.  If  he  had  killed  Godovius  that  dream  must 
have  been  surrendered.  Very  well  ...  let  it  go. 
Even  now  it  might  be  that  he  would  have  to  kill  Go- 
dovius. .  .  . 

He  wished  that  he  could  smoke.  Such  meditations 
as  these  were  less  easy  without  tobacco.  His  to- 
bacco hung  in  a  yellow  canvas  bag  at  his  belt,  but  his 
pipe  was  in  his  pocket,  and  in  any  case  his  hand  was 
not  free,  for  Eva's  fingers  lay  upon  his  arm,  and  she, 
poor  child,  must  sleep.  By  this  time  his  eyes  were 
so  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  of  the  banda,  now 
faintly  illumined  by  starlight  and  the  beams  of  the 
rising  moon,  that  he  could  see  every  feature  of  her 
pale  face  and  the  gloom  of  her  hair.  He  had  never 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  201 

before  been  able  really  to  see  Eva's  face.  In  the  day- 
light the  candour  of  her  eyes  would  have  abashed  him ; 
he  would  not  have  dared  to  look  at  her  eyes.  Now 
he  saw  how  much  her  beauty  meant  to  him.  If  he 
should  kill  Godovius  he  would  never  see  her 
again.  .  .  . 

Against  this  final  cruelty  his  spirit  rebelled.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  he  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  hard  creed  of  Calvinism.  Here,  even  in  spite 
of  the  new  beliefs  which  life  had  taught  him  so  bitter- 
ly, he  found  himself  instinctively  remembering  the 
words  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  the  brand  of  the 
murderer  Cain,  whose  fate  it  had  been  to  wander  to 
and  fro  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  So  deeply  in- 
grained in  his  mind  were  the  teachings  of  his  child- 
hood that  he  was  almost  ready  to  accept  this  cruelty 
as  justice:  a  kind  of  religious  justice  which  decreed 
that  if  he  were  to  save  her  loveliness  from  the  defile- 
ment of  Godovius  he  must  relinquish  for  ever  the  one 
surpassing  revelation  of  beauty  which  had  crowned  his 
wanderings. 

Even  so  it  seemed  probable  that  he  would  have  to 
kill  Godovius.  There  was  no  other  way  out  of  it. 
At  his  side  lay  his  rifle.  The  chambers  were  loaded 
with  soft-nosed  four-fifty  bullets.  He  remembered  the 
scandals  which  centred  in  the  soft-nosed  bullet  in  the 
Boer  War.  A  bullet  of  that  kind  inflicted  terrible 
wounds.  That  wouldn't  matter  if  only  he  shot 
straight:  and  there  was  no  fear  of  his  missing,  for 
his  rifle  was  almost  part  of  his  maimed  body. 

Eva  stirred  very  gently  in  her  sleep.     She  made  a 


202  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

strange  choking  noise  that  was  like  a  sob.  M'Crae's 
fingers  grasped  her  hand.  He  had  never  done  any- 
thing like  that  before:  but  it  seemed  natural  to  take 
Hold  of  the  hand  of  a  child  who  was  frightened  in 
the  dark. 


in 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  stillness  of  the  night 
was  broken  by  the  sound  of  Africans  grunting  beneath 
a  burden  and  the  clatter  of  many  tongues.  In  the 
front  of  the  mission  there  was  a  great  commotion 
and  M'Crae  roused  Eva  from  her  sleep.  Now  that 
the  game  of  secrecy  was  over  there  seemed  to  be  no 
point  in  concealment;  and  Eva  was  far  too  sleepy  to 
question  what  he  did.  They  stepped  out  together  into 
the  pale  night.  The  sky  was  very  high  and  clear,  but 
immense  billows  of  milky  cloud  were  ranged  along 
the  hill  horizons,  which  in  their  huge  whiteness  over- 
powered the  little  earth.  Beneath  the  stoep  a  crowd 
of  Waluguru  were  setting  up  a  kelele.  Most  of  them 
were  naked  and  their  polished  skins  shone  in  the  moon- 
light. They  swarmed  like  black  ants  about  a  piece 
of  carrion,  and  the  body  which  they  had  dragged  from 
the  forest  to  the  mission  was  that  of  James,  bleeding 
and  torn  by  the  thorns  of  the  bush  and  smothered  in 
red  dust.  Hamisi,  who  appeared  to  be  in  charge  of 
the  expedition,  was  loud  and  anxious  in  explanation. 

"Hapana  kufa.  .  .  .  He  isn't  dead,"  he  hastened  to 
tell  them.  Sakharani,  he  said,  had  sent  him  home.  He 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  203 

had  been  found  unconscious  in  the  forest:  even  now 
he  was  unconscious,  but  breathing,  and  alive. 

Now,  at  any  rate,  he  had  little  chance  of  air,  so 
completely  was  he  surrounded  by  the  sweating  Walu- 
guru.  M'Crae  told  them  to  go  back  to  the  forest. 
Already  Eva  was  kneeling  at  her  brother's  side,  while 
the  boy  Hamisi,  pleased  with  the  importance  of  his 
mission,  grinned  and  repeated  the  words:  "Hapana 
kufa.  .  .  .  Hapana  kufa.  .  .  .  He  isn't  dead." 

He  wasn't  dead,  but,  for  all  that,  a  very  ghastly 
sight.  His  face  was  deadly  pale  and  smeared  with 
the  blood  that  had  trickled  from  a  split  in  the  skin 
above  his  right  eyebrow.  His  right  eye  was  full  of 
blood.  The  blow  must  have  stunned  him  fairly  effec- 
tually, or  else  the  rough  journey  would  have  awakened 
him. 

"We  must  get  him  into  the  house,"  said  M'Crae. 
He  saw  Eva  help  Hamisi  to  lift  him  and  cursed  his 
own  maimed  strength.  It  was  beautiful  of  her,  he 
thought,  that  she  should  consent  to  do  such  things. 
They  lifted  him  and  dragged  him  to  his  own  room, 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed.  Eva  brought  a  bowl  of 
water  from  the  kitchen  and  bathed  his  head.  M'Crae, 
miserably  helpless,  questioned  Hamisi. 

Bwana  N'gombe  (James),  he  said,  had  been  found 
in  the  forest  near  Kilima  ja  Mweze.  The  cut  on  the 
head  was  nothing.  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  against  a 
tree.  Perhaps  a  leopard  had  torn  him.  They  had 
found  him  lying  in  the  grass.  Lying  asleep.  Even 
now  he  was  asleep.  Hamisi  relapsed  again  into  his 
monotonous  "Hapana  kufa.  .  .  .  Hapana  kufa.* 


204  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

Perhaps  he  had  gone  to  sleep  for  want  of  blood.  Per- 
haps a  devil  had  done  it.  He  knew  nothing  whatever 
about  it.  He  only  knew  that  the  man  had  been  picked 
up  asleep  in  the  grass  and  that  Sakharani  had  told 
them  to  carry  him  home.  And  here  he  was.  Hamisi 
grinned,  being  satisfied  that  he  had  taken  part  in  an 
excellent  piece  of  work. 

All  the  time  that  M'Crae  was  questioning  the  Walu- 
guru  he  had  his  eye  on  Eva.  He  watched  the  splen- 
did way  (as  he  thought)  in  which  she  suddenly 
adapted  herself  to  the  demands  of  the  moment.  Once 
again,  as  on  the  night  when  he  had  staggered  out  to 
waylay  her,  she  was  showing  him  her  deft,  practical 
side :  the  aspect  which  appeals  most  strongly  to  a  man 
who  has  made  a  woman  the  vehicle  of  a  tender  ideal. 
It  reminded  him  of  that  first  night.  It  pleased  him 
that  it  should  do  so,  and  so  he  kept  Hamisi  talking, 
and  tried  lovingly  to  recover  the  atmosphere  of  their 
first  meeting,  thinking:  "You  wonderful  wom- 
an. .  .  ." 

He  packed  Hamisi  off  to  bed  in  his  smoky  hole. 
He  and  Eva  together  stripped  James  of  his  torn  and 
muddy  clothes. 

"You  see  he  has  been  through  the  swamp,"  he  said. 

It  pleased  him  to  find  that  he  could  use  his  arm 
with  very  little  discomfort  now,  and  the  sense  of 
helplessness  which  had  lain  upon  him  so  heavily  in 
the  banda  disappeared.  It  was  difficult  to  realise  that 
he  had  led  the  life  of  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon  for  a 
month.  And  Eva,  too,  was  amazed  at  the  help  which 
he  gave  her,  for  she  had  grown  to  think  of  him  as 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  205 

a  helpless  and  pitiable  creature.  When  she  had  started 
to  undress  James  she  had  not  imagined  that  the  task 
would  be  so  difficult.  The  weight  of  his  unconscious 
body  surprised  her.  A  poor,  thin  creature,  wasted 
by  fever  ...  he  looked  as  though  she  could  easily 
pick  him  up  in  her  arms.  But  she  couldn't.  Even  with 
the  help  of  M'Crae  it  was  a  struggle. 

"It's  no  good  wasting  your  strength,"  he  said. 
"You'd  better  slit  up  the  sleeve."  So  she  went  to  her 
room  and  fetched  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  then  M'Crae 
found  himself  watching  her  slim,  capable  fingers  again. 

"I  won't  leave  you  now,"  he  said,  and  was  rewarded 
by  her  smile. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time  together,  speaking 
in  whispers,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  waking  James, 
although,  in  fact,  they  were  most  anxious  that  he 
should  wake.  It  was  a  very  strange  night  for  M'Crae. 
Removed  at  last  from  the  gloom  of  the  banda,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  really  seen  Eva  be- 
fore. In  this  light  and  spacious  room  she  was  quite 
a  different  creature  from  the  gentle  presence  which 
had  haunted  his  prison;  endowed,  in  some  way,  with 
a  more  beautiful  freedom  of  movement  .  .  .  more 
alive.  More  hopelessly  unattainable.  But  it  was  ridic- 
ulous on  the  face  of  it  that  she  should  occur  to  him 
in  these  terms.  He  thrust  the  fancy  aside  obstinately, 
only  to  find  it  obstinately  return.  For  why  in  the 
world  should  he  not  enjoy  this  brief  interlude  of  beau- 
ty and  light,  seeing  that  in  a  very  little  time,  a  few 
days  .  .  .  perhaps  a  few  hours,  he  himself  must  van- 
ish altogether  into  a  darkness  from  which  he  would 


206  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

never  emerge?  For,  without  any  doubt,  he  must  kill 
Godovius.  There  was  no  way  out  of  that. 

At  length,  a  little  time  before  the  dawn,  when  the 
night  was  at  its  coldest,  James  stirred  in  his  bed. 
His  hand  uncertainly  sought  his  bandaged  head,  and 
Eva  very  tenderly  guided  it  downwards  and  laid  it 
beneath  the  blanket.  The  movement  was  an  immense 
relief  to  both  of  them.  Neither  of  them  spoke;  and 
yet  M'Crae  could  see  that  a  shadow  had  been  lifted 
from  her  face. 

And  now  James  became  increasingly  restless.  Once 
or  twice  he  gave  a  groan  of  pain,  and  then  a  deep 
sigh,  almost  a  sigh  of  content.  He  tried  to  lift  him- 
self up  in  the  bed,  though  Eva  gently  restrained  him. 
At  last  he  spoke. 

"I  must  have  left  it  behind  ...  in  the  church  .  .  . 
it  is  so  light." 

He  tried  to  open  his  eyes.  M'Crae  could  see 
his  brows  wrinkling  beneath  the  bandage.  "Too 
light  .  .  ."  he  said. 

M'Crae  moved  the  lamp  further  away  from  the  bed. 

His  footsteps  disturbed  James. 

"Who's  that?  .  .  .  There's  somebody  there,"  he 
said.  "Oh,  my  poor  head  .  .  .  my  poor  head." 

Eva  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  his  forehead.  "It's 
all  right,  dear,  don't  worry,"  she  said. 

For  a  little  while  he  was  contented ;  but  then  he  said 
again :  "There's  someone  else  in  the  room.  .  .  .  Who 
is  it?  He  isn't  here,  is  he?" 

Even  in  this  dazed  condition  he  was  typically  per- 
sistent. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  207 

"There's  somebody  there  .  .  .  who  is  it?  You're 
keeping  it  from  me.  It  isn't  fair.  Who  is  it?" 

Eva's  voice  trembled  as  she  answered.  She  was 
listening  to  her  own  voice. 

"It's  only  a  friend,"  she  said. 

"A  friend?  .  .  .  We  have  no  friends." 

"A  stranger.  A  Mr.  M'Crae.  A  hunter  who  was 
lost  near  here  and  came  to  the  mission." 

There  followed  a  long  silence.  She  was  dreading 
what  would  come  next.  To  her  relief  she  found  that 
he  was  treating  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

He  said:  "Oh  ...  all  right.  My  head  does  ache 
so." 

For  the  first  time  Eva  breathed  freely.  No  doubt 
it  was  strange  that  she  should  be  so  relieved;  but 
the  difficulty  which  she  had  dreaded  most  in  James' 
awakening  had  been  his  discovery  of  M'Crae's  pres- 
ence. From  the  very  first  she  had  wondered  how  he 
would  take  it.  She  had  feared  that  his  peculiarly 
jealous  regard  for  all  strangers,  a  thing  which  he  had 
overcome  with  difficulty  in  his  youth,  would  be  too 
much  for  him.  The  anticipation  of  this  had  been 
bad  enough;  but  after  her  interview  with  Godovius, 
and  his  most  hateful  insinuations,  she  had  felt  that  * 
James  would  be  almost  justified  in  thinking  the  worst ' 
of  her,  and  that  she  could  have  no  defence  to  offef 
which  wouldn't  sound  like  the  flimsiest  excuse.  But 
the  pain  in  James'  head  asserted  itself  too  cruelly  for 
him  to  think  of  anything  else  for  the  moment  He 
accepted  the  presence  of  M'Crae  as  nothing  more  than 
a  curiosity,  and  the  little  that  she  told  him  seemed  to 


208  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

satisfy  him.  A  little  later,  when  his  enhavocked  brain 
began  to  clear  a  little,  the  horror  of  the  night  before, 
which  had  been  mercifully  forgotten,  stole  back  again. 
Suddenly,  as  he  lay  there,  with  his  hand  in  Eva's,  he 
was  shaken  by  a  fit  of  sobbing.  At  the  best  of  times 
the  sight  of  a  grown  man  so  tortured  is  terrible.  And 
he  was  Eva's  brother.  The  one  emotion  with  which 
she  had  habitually  regarded  him  was  that  of  pity. 
Now  her  compassion  was  overwhelming.  She  would 
have  given  anything  in  the  world  to  be  able  to  soothe 
him.  He  was  clutching  so  hard  at  the  hand  in  which 
his  own  had  lain  that  he  actually  hurt  her.  M'Crae 
saw  her  bending  over  James.  He  stepped  through 
the  open  window  out  on  the  clammy  stoep. 

"You  poor,  poor  dear,"  he  heard  her  say.  "Is  your 
head  so  bad?" 

James  spoke  chokingly  through  his  sobs. 

"The  pain's  nothing  .  .  .  nothing.  I've  only  just 
awakened  .  .  .  remembered.  Eva,  I've  been  in  hell. 
There  can't  be  anything  worse  in  hell.  I'd  forgotten. 
Oh,  my  God,  my  God.  I  shall  never  forget  again. 
My  God.  .  .  .  My  God.  .  .  ."  And  he  started  cry- 
ing again. 

She  could  do  nothing  with  him.  Her  own  helpless- 
ness amazed  her.  At  times  the  storm  of  sobs  would 
cease;  but  even  then  the  light  of  his  reason  shone 
balefully.  The  words  which  he  spoke  were  discon- 
nected, and  all  were  madly  tinged  with  the  remem- 
brance of  horror.  Again  and  again  he  would  say  that 
he  had  been  in  hell,  in  the  uttermost  hell.  And  then 
his  fancy  would  suddenly  be  taken  with  the  idea  of 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  209 

fire.  "Look,"  he  cried,  "look,  they're  bringing  dry 
wood  to  the  fire.  The  heat  .  .  .  think  of  the  heat. 
.  .  .  Seven  times  heated.  Nothing  could  live.  The 
stones  are  white-hot.  Oh,  God  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  can 
you  see  it?"  Then  he  would  scream:  "They're  com- 
ing .  .  .  they're  coming  .  .  ."  and  clutch  at  his  head 
and  grip  Eva's  hand;  and  she  would  grip  his  in  her 
turn,  as  though  the  consciousness  of  her  nearness  and 
her  strength  might  help  his  lonely  spirit.  Once,  in- 
deed, she  found  that  he  was  stroking  her  hand.  He 
had  never  done  such  a  thing  before,  and  the  action 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  But  it  was  not  Eva  of 
whom  he  was  thinking.  He  said :  "Mother  .  .  .  dear 
mother."  In  a  little  while  the  violence  and  frequency 
of  his  fits  of  sobbing  abated.  He  babbled  less  wildly, 
and  fell  at  last,  as  she  thought,  into  a  state  that  re- 
sembled sleep.  Indeed,  she  would  have  left  him  if 
his  fingers  had  not  been  still  clutching  her  hand.  Thus 
they  waited,  until  in  the  hour  before  their  sudden  dawn 
a  rain-bird  sang.  The  sound  was  doubly  sweet  to 
Eva,  for  she  knew  that  the  daylight  was  at  hand,  and 
in  daylight  she  need  not  be  so  frightened.  But  with 
the  dawn  she  heard  another  sound.  And  the  sleeper 
heard  it  in  his  dreams,  for  he  surprised  her  by  leap- 
ing up  in  bed,  with  terror  in  his  grey  face.  "The 
drums  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Do  you  hear  them?  The 
drums  of  hell." 


CHAPTER  XII 


TV/T'CRAE,  walking  up  and  down  the  stoep,  and 
•*•  meditating  on  the  strangeness  of  life,  was  aware 
of  the  drumming  which  ushered  in  the  dawn.  In  the 
ears  of  James  it  awakened  only  memories  of  a  recent 
terror;  but  M'Crae,  more  deeply  learned  in  the  ways 
of  Africa,  knew  that  it  portended  something  more 
than  an  echo  of  the  night's  frenzy.  The  sound  no 
longer  centred  in  the  villages  about  the  foot  of  Kilima 
ja  Mweze.  It  came  to  him  from  every  point  of  the 
compass  and  from  places  where  he  had  no  idea  that 
there  were  villages  at  all.  The  rhythm  of  the  music, 
again,  no  longer  followed  the  headlong  triple  time 
which  had  been  beaten  out  by  the  drums  of  the  N'goma. 
He  noticed  that  the  rhythms  were  broken  and  very 
varied :  almost  as  if  the  hidden  drummers  were  tapping 
a  message  in  Morse  or  some  other  recognised  code. 
The  change  filled  him  with  a  subtle  anxiety:  and  in 
a  little  while  he  realised  that  he  was  not  the  only 
person  whom  the  sound  had  disturbed.  On  the  edge 
of  the  compound  he  heard  African  voices.  Hamisi 
and  Onyango  and  another  M'luguru,  a  ragged  savage 
whose  business  it  was  to  herd  the  mission  goats,  were 
talking  together  in  high-pitched  voices.  Determined, 
if  he  could,  to  find  the  cause  of  this  excitement,  he 

210 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  211 

slipped  across  the  compound  under  the  cover  of  a 
hedge  of  young  sisal,  and  saw  that  they  were  sitting 
in  front  of  their  shanty.  The  boy  Hamisi  was  en- 
gaged in  polishing  the  long  blade  of  a  Masai  spear: 
and  the  word  which  emerged  most  clearly  from  their 
talk  was  the  Swahili,  "Vita,"  which  by  an  inversion 
of  sense  peculiar  to  Western  ears  has  the  meaning  of 
"War." 

M'Crae  was  troubled  by  this  word,  and,  with  it,  the 
somewhat  sinister  occupation  which  Hamisi  was  en- 
joying. He  knew  all  about  war:  the  assagais  of  the 
Zulu,  the  Mauser  bullets  of  the  Boer  snipers.  Africa 
is  a  land  in  which  that  fire  has  never  ceased  to  smould- 
er: he  had  always  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  contin- 
ent's life.  No  more  than  that.  He  had  never  dreaded 
it;  but  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  some  way  his 
attitude  had  been  subtly  changed.  When  he  thought 
of  war  he  began  to  think  also  of  Eva,  and  to  realise 
that  for  a  woman  native  warfare  includes  terrible  pos- 
sibilities. Now,  more  than  ever,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Destiny  had  brought  him  famished  to  Luguru 
to  fulfil  the  part  of  a  protector,  for  which  she  had 
already,  brutally,  almost  disqualified  him. 

He  wished  that  he  could  read  the  message  of  these 
disquieting  drum-taps.  Most  probably,  he  thought, 
they  announced  some  forlorn  hope  of  a  native  rising 
already  destined  to  wither  before  the  German  machine 
guns  in  the  slaughter  of  black  hosts.  He  knew  the 
history  of  German  South-West  and  the  end  of  the 
Hereros.  And  he  wondered — for  he  had  lived  so  long 
in  Africa  that  he  knew  the  humble  ideals  of  its  mil- 


212  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

lions — why  these  people  should  suffer  our  civilisation 
in  the  hail  of  Maxim  fire.  Yet,  even  while  he  indulged 
this  vein  of  wonder  and  pity,  he  realised  that  a  Euro- 
pean community  so  small  and  so  isolated  as  their  little 
company  at  Luguru  might  very  well  be  exterminated 
in  the  first  outburst.  In  his  years  of  wandering  he 
had  learnt  that  the  best  way  of  dealing  with  the  Afri- 
can is  to  be  direct  and  truthful.  He  stepped  out  into 
the  path,  and  Hamisi,  hearing  his  approach,  pushed 
his  spear  into  the  hut  and  greeted  him  with  a  very 
charming  smile. 

"I  have  heard  you  talking  of  the  war,"  said  M'Crae. 
"And  I  have  heard  the  drums  say  the  same  thing. 
What  is  this  war?" 

Hamisi  smiled  languidly,  scratching  his  legs. 

"There  is  no  war,"  said  he. 

"But  I  have  heard  all  that  you  said.  And  you  were 
making  ready  a  spear.  You  were  not  going  to  spear 
lions  like  the  Masai.  The  Waluguru  are  not  brave 
enough  for  that.  You  had  better  tell  me." 

The  idea  that  his  lie  had  been  taken  for  what  it 
was  worth  seemed  to  please  Hamisi.  This  time  he 
laughed  outright.  If  the  bwana  knew  that  there  was 
a  war,  he  said,  why  need  he  ask  questions?  The 
Wasungu  (Europeans)  knew  more  about  everything 
than  the  Waluguru.  They  only  knew  that  there  was 
a  war,  and  that  they  were  going  to  fight. 

"And  who  are  you  going  to  fight?"  asked  M'Crae. 

Hamisi  smiled,  but  said  he  did  not  know ;  and  when 
M'Crae  had  questioned  him  a  little  longer  he  became 
convinced  that  in  this,  at  least,  Hamisi  was  speaking 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  213 

the  truth.  Somewhere  in  the  world,  somewhere  in 
Africa — perhaps  no  nearer  than  the  northern  fringe 
of  the  Sahara — the  smouldering  flame  of  violence  had 
flickered  out.  He  did  not  know  then  any  more  than 
did  Hamisi.  sharpening  his  spear,  that  these  angry 
drum-throbs  were  no  more  than  the  diminished  echoes 
of  the  guns  that  were  battering  Liege. 

He  went  into  the  house  to  find  Eva.  James,  it 
seemed,  had  fallen  once  more  into  an  uneasy  and  ex- 
hausted sleep.  Even  now  his  poor  brain  was  haunted 
by  the  memory  of  the  night's  horrors;  but  the  watch- 
ing had  told  so  heavily  on  Eva  that  she  thought  she 
had  better  leave  him  for  a  little.  M'Crae  found  her 
in  the  kitchen  making  coffee  for  breakfast.  She  spoke 
in  a  whisper,  as  though  she  feared  that  her  voice  might 
be  heard  above  the  clamour  in  James'  brain.  "He's 
sleeping,  or  at  any  rate  he's  stopped  talking,"  she 
said.  She  smiled  quite  bravely,  but  saw  in  a  moment 
that  some  new  thing  was  troubling  M'Crae.  "What's 
the  matter  now?"  she  said. 

"I  had  wanted  to  keep  it  to  myself,"  said  he.  "I 
don't  think  we  need  worry  about  it." 

"Nothing  much  worse  could  happen,"  she  said.  "I 
think  I  could  face  anything  now.  What  is  he  going 
to  do?" 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Godovius  this  time.  .  .  ." 

''Then  why  did  you  frighten  me?"  she  said. 

"It's  war  .  .  .  there's  a  war  somewhere.  I  don't 
know  where.  In  Tripoli,  perhaps.  The  Waluguru 
know  something  about  it;  but  I  don't  suppose  they 


214  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

know  more  than  I-  do.  I  don't  suppose  Godovius 
knows." 

When  he  first  spoke  she  had  gone  very  pale ;  now  her 
colour  returned. 

"It  was  too  bad  of  you  to  frighten  me  like  that," 
she  said.  "I  thought  you  had  heard  something  ter- 
rible about  .  .  .  him.  .  .  ." 

They  took  breakfast  together  in  the  little  room,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  that  meal  had  a  peculiar  quality  of 
lightness;  as  though,  indeed,  they  had  just  weathered 
a  violent  thunderstorm,  and  were  talking  together  in 
a  silence  which  made  their  voices  sound  small  and 
unreal.  By  the  time  they  had  finished  their  breakfast 
the  sun  had  risen  and  filled  the  air  with  golden  light. 
They  stood  on  the  stoep  together  gazing  out  over  the 
newly  awakened  lands.  Beneath  the  sun  these  lay 
in  a  vast  and  smiling  lethargy.  Thus  would  they 
awake  to-morrow  and  for  many  weeks  to  come.  Thus 
had  they  awakened  for  countless  centuries  before  the 
ships  of  Sheba  came  to  seek  their  gold.  M'Crae  gazed 
fondly :  there  was  no  wonder  that  he  loved  Africa : 
but  Eva  was  far  less  conscious  of  this  revelation  of 
beauty  than  of  the  presence  of  the  man  at  her  side. 
Neither  of  them  broke  the  silence:  but  from  within 
they  heard  the  wailing  sound  of  James'  voice,  raised  in 
complaint : 

"A  voice  was  heard  upon  the  high  places  .  .  . 
weeping  and  supplication  .  .  .  weeping  and  supplica- 
tion. .  .  ." 

Eva  turned  and  left  the  side  of  M'Crae.  As  she 
passed  him  she  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  215 

ii 

Into  the  heat  of  the  day  the  rumble  of  war-drums 
never  ceased.  Their  sound  contributed  an  uneasy 
background  to  the  wanderings  of  James.  It  was  no 
matter  for  surprise  that  his  night  of  exposure  in 
the  forest  had  awakened  the  activities  of  the  hosts  of 
fever  which  slept  in  his  veins.  Perhaps  this  was  a 
blessing;  for  now  his  body  was  so  shaken  with  ague 
or  burned  with  the  alternate  fire  that  the  hot  reality 
of  his  last  horror  no  longer  filled  his  brain.  Eva  sat 
beside  him.  In  the  rare  intervals  of  lucid  thought 
his  mood  was  merely  childish  and  querulous.  M'Crae, 
seeing  that  there  remained  for  him  no  sphere  of  use- 
fulness in  the  house,  retired,  as  if  by  habit,  to  the 
shade  of  his  banda,  and  began  to  busy  himself  with 
the  notes  of  his  book. 

He  wrote  in  a  cramped  and  undeveloped  hand,  but 
very  seriously.  Even  in  the  banda  he  felt  the  heat 
of  that  pale  sky.  He  wrote  slowly,  as  one  would 
expect  of  a  man  for  whom  life  was  infinitely  spacious 
and  leisurely,  with  long  pauses  between  the  sentences, 
in  which,  perhaps,  he  was  choosing  the  unwilling 
words,  or  even  thinking  of  very  different  things.  At 
times,  again,  he  would  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence, 
remaining  painfully  still,  as  if  he  were  listening.  He 
listened,  but  heard  no  sound  beyond  the  thin,  clear 
note  of  a  grass  country  under  a  tropical  noon.  Noth- 
ing more  .  .  .  and  yet  a  curious  instinct  prompted 
him  to  put  out  his  hand  for  his  Mannlicher,  and  lay 
it  gently  at  his  side.  He  went  on  writing  again.  Again 


216  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

stopped  and  listened.  He  was  not  happy.  He  wished 
now  that  he  had  kept  to  his  post  on  the  stoep  within 
call  of  Eva  in  James'  room.  He  gave  the  matter  a 
moment  of  serious  thinking.  It  was  a  pity,  he  thought, 
that  he  had  come  into  the  banda,  where  he  could  see 
nothing:  for  now  there  was  no  need  of  concealment, 
and  a  man  was  a  poor  creature  without  the  use  of 
his  eyes.  His  ears,  indeed,  had  been  so  long  attuned 
to  the  condition  of  silence  that  they  were  quick  to 
notice  the  least  sound  of  moving  beast  or  bird  and 
to  distinguish  these  from  the  noises  which  are  made 
by  men.  Now  he  instinctively  felt  that  men  were 
near.  In  this  there  was  nothing  essentially  danger- 
ous, for  Hamisi  and  the  other  boys  might  well  be  in 
the  garden.  But  he  knew  that  Eva  was  tied  to  the 
bedside  of  James,  and  that  no  African,  unless  he  were 
going  to  steal,  would  enter  the  garden  of  a  European, 
or  work  without  being  told  to  do  so.  And  so  he 
wondered,  feeling  curiously  insecure. 

He  decided  that  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  see  for 
himself.  He  raised  his  body,  very  quietly,  from  the 
heap  of  sisal,  and  stole  to  the  door  of  the  banda.  By 
the  time  that  he  reached  it  he  knew  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  leaving  his  rifle  behind.  But  then  it  was 
too  late.  A  group  of  armed  Waluguru  threw  them- 
selves upon  him.  They  were  so  many  that  he  had 
no  chance.  In  a  moment  he  was  thrown  to  the  ground 
with  a  gag  in  his  mouth,  while  his  arm  and  his  legs 
were  bound  with  a  rope  of  sisal  fibre.  He  knew  that 
it  was  no  use  struggling.  And,  after  all,  this  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  he  had  expected.  The  only 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  217 

thing  which  struck  him  as  strange  was  the  costume  of 
these  Waluguru  and  the  arms  which  they  carried.  He 
couldn't  imagine  that  the  Germans  had  trained  such 
savages  for  police,  armed  them  with  rifles,  and  put 
them  into  shorts  and  jerseys.  They  dragged  him  along 
the  avenue  under  the  flamboyant  trees,  and  in  his  hur- 
ried passage  the  events  of  the  morning  suggested  to 
him  an  incredible  solution.  War  .  .  .  there  was  war. 
Not  merely  one  of  the  black  wars  of  Africa,  but  a 
war  of  white  men  in  which  his  own  people  were  en- 
gaged. The  magnitude  of  the  business,  its  possibilities 
in  the  wilds  of  Africa,  overwhelmed  him.  He  thought 
of  Eva.  ...  If  he  had  only  guessed  that  morning 
when  they  first  heard  the  drums  .  .  .  if  he  had  not 
been  so  ridiculously  unimaginative.  .  .  .  But  now  he 
could  do  nothing. 

In  front  of  the  house  Godovius  was  awaiting  him. 
Behind  him,  in  orderly  silence,  stood  another  dozen 
of  armed  askaris.  As  the  others,  grunting,  dragged 
in  the  body  of  M'Crae,  the  noise  of  this  commotion 
reached  Eva,  and  she  ran  out  on  to  the  stoep.  At 
first  she  didn't  see  the  bound  figure  of  M'Crae.  She 
saw  only  Godovius — Godovius  in  the  white  uniform 
of  the  German  colonial  army:  and  the  sight  disturbed 
her,  strangely  enough,  not  so  much  because  he  was 
the  enemy  whom  she  dreaded  most,  but  because  he 
happened  to  be  wearing  the  uniform  which  she  had 
seen  in  the  picture  which  had  first  frightened  her  in 
his  house.  "That  was  all  I  saw,"  she  said.  "He  was 
holding  himself  in  the  same  military  way,  and  looking 
so  important." 


218  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

He  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  business.  He  clicked 
his  heels  and  saluted.  "This  is  a  serious  matter,  Miss 
Eva,"  he  said.  "I  am  no  longer  here  as  your  friend 
and  neighbour,  but  as  a  soldier  of  Germany.  The 
Fatherland  imposes  hard  tasks  upon  us,  but  we  have 
no  alternative  but  obedience.  It  is  only  this  morning 
that  the  message  has  reached  me.  Our  countries  are 
at  war.  This  is  the  work  of  Russia  and  France.  Eng- 
land, their  dupe,  has  had  the  insolence  to  join  them. 
It  is  a  bad  day  for  England  in  Africa.  It  is  the  end 
of  England  in  Africa.  Your  brother  and  you  and  the 
man  Hare  are  my  prisoners.  You  will  appreciate  the 
fact  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  personally. 
I  only  do  my  duty." 

Through  this  piece  of  deadly  serious  bombast  Eva 
had  stood  bewildered.  When  he  mentioned  the  name 
of  Hare  she  came  suddenly,  as  it  were,  to  herself. 
She  saw  the  body  of  M'Crae  lying  bound  in  the  dust. 
She  saw  nothing  else.  She  wanted  to  see  that  he 
wasn't  hurt.  She  hadn't  nursed  him  so  tenderly  all 
those  weeks  for  this.  She  saw  the  veins  of  his  bound 
arm  standing  out  as  thick  as  the  cords  which  bound 
them.  His  face  was  turned  away  from  her.  She  hur- 
ried to  his  side.  The  askaris  stood  between  them  with 
their  bayonets.  Godovius  shook  his  head. 

"Even  now  I  see  that  you  do  not  understand.  This 
man  is  a  prisoner  of  war.  However  dear  he  may  be 
to  you,  this  is  the  fortune  of  war.  I  could  not  help 
you  to  your  desires  if  I  would.  You  will  see  no  more 
of  him.  But  even  in  war  Germany  is  generous.  The 
Germans  do  not  make  war  on  women  or  on  priests. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  219 

You  will  stay  here,  for  the  present  at  any  rate,  under 
my  supervision.  What  the  Government  may  do  with 
you  and  your  brother  later  I  do  not  know.  The  man 
Hare  will  be  shot.  That  I  do  know.  But  even  so  1 
shall  not  shoot  him.  I  shall  not  shoot  him  unless  you 
misbehave.  He  is  your  hostage  with  me.  But  you 
will  stay  here.  You  will  give  me  your  word  that 
neither  you  nor  your  brother  will  leave  the  mission 
nor  attempt  to  communicate  with  others  of  our  en- 
emies. I  must  see  your  brother  about  this.  You  will 
be  good  enough  to  lead  the  way." 

"You  cannot  see  him,"  she  said.  "He  is  ill,  oh! 
very  ill.  He  would  not  be  able  to  understand  you. 
Even  I  don't  understand.  I  can't  understand.  .  .  ." 

He  bowed  gravely.  "I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  your 
brother's  ill  health.  It  is  the  night  air.  The  night 
air  of  the  swamp  is  very  poisonous  to  a  missionary. 
It  was  imprudent.  I  have  noticed  it  before.  But  I 
will  take  your  word." 

He  bowed  again,  and  turned  to  his  askaris.  "Che- 
kua,"  he  said.  "Lift  .  .  ."  They  raised  the  lean 
body  of  M'Crae,  and  set  off  down  the  hill-side.  Godo- 
vius  came  very  near  to  Eva,  so  near  that  she  shud- 
dered. Again  the  nightmare  of  the  picture.  .  .  . 
"Miss  Eva,"  he  said,  "between  us  there  should  not 
be  war.  You  see  the  man  Hare  goes  to  my  house. 
He  may  escape.  ...  It  is  possible  that  he  will  es- 
cape .  .  .  possible,  but  not  probable.  If  he  should 
escape,  what  will  you  give  me?" 


220  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

in 

The  next  few  days  were  very  terrible  for  Eva. 
Perhaps  it  was  fortunate  for  her  that  her  brother 
needed  so  much  attention  and  that  his  state  harrowed 
her  sufficiently  to  keep  her  mind  from  the  greater 
tragedy.  James  made  a  very  slow  recovery,  and  she 
could  not  feel  that  she  was  justified  in  telling  him 
of  a  climax  in  their  affairs  which  might  fall  with  de- 
vastating effect  on  a  mind  already  torn  by  his  adven- 
ture. Little  by  little  he  began  to  talk  more  freely 
of  this,  and  always  with  a  communicated  awe.  At 
first  it  seemed  that  he  could  never  recover  his  hopes, 
or  his  faith  in  himself.  He  was  far  too  weak  to  feel 
that  he  could  ever  return  to  the  struggle :  but  in  a 
little  while  he  began  to  realise  that  he  must  make  a 
new  beginning.  Then,  as  the  fever  left  his  body,  and 
his  mind  became  less  perilously  clear,  the  old  impulse 
gradually  returned,  and  he  began  to  make  plans  for 
the  new  campaign.  "This  time,"  he  said,  "I  shall  not 
be  fighting  in  the  dark.  I  think  I  know  the  worst. 
Nothing  could  be  worse  .  .  .  nothing.  If  only  God 
will  give  me  strength.  I  must  not  be  beaten.  I'm 
only  dealing  with  the  same  thing  as  the  prophets  and 
the  early  Christians.  If  I  were  not  quite  so  utterly 
alone  .  .  .  And  yet,  if  the  trial  is  greater,  so  will  be 
the  triumph." 

In  the  end  she  found  he  could  speak  to  her  almost 
dispassionately  of  his  adventure,  although  he  never  told 
her  any  details  of  the  affair,  and  she  knew  better  than 
to  ask  him.  Indeed  she  knew  very  well  that  when  he 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  221 

spoke  to  her  it  was  really  no  more  than  a  little  attempt 
to  share  his  trouble  with  another  creature,  to  evade 
the  utter  loneliness  of  which  he  had  complained,  and 
that  it  didn't  matter  to  him  whether  she  understood 
him  or  no.  All  the  time  it  was  clear  that  he  found 
the  whole  business  in  retrospect  rather  thrilling,  and 
even  though  he  never  once  mentioned  the  crowning 
horror  of  the  night,  he  talked  quite  frankly  of  small 
things  which  he  remembered :  of  his  passage  of  the 
M'ssente  River  under  the  rising  moon;  of  the  coarse 
grasses  which  had  cut  his  fingers.  Indeed  he  might 
well  remember  those,  for  his  hands  were  still  band- 
aged so  that  he  could  not  hold  a  book.  The  ragged 
wound  on  his  forehead  worried  him :  for  he  could  not 
be  certain  how  he  had  come  by  it.  "I  remember  noth- 
ing after  a  certain  point,"  he  said.  "I  know  it  seemed 
to  me  that  they  were  all  rushing  towards  me.  Per- 
haps I  cried  out,  and  they  hadn't  seen  me  before.  And 
yet  they  must  have  known  that  I  was  there.  The 
hill  was  full  of  them.  I  just  remember  them  all  rush- 
ing towards  me  in  the  firelight.  I  remember  how 
white  their  eyes  and  their  teeth  were.  And  that's 
all.  Yes  ...  I  think  I  must  have  cried  out  in  spite 
of  myself." 

And  all  the  time  that  he  spoke  of  these  things  she 
was  thinking  of  M'Crae,  wondering  what  enormities 
he  might  be  suffering  in  the  house  of  Godovius.  She 
did  not  realise  herself  how  much  she  missed  him, 
what  a  stable  and  reassuring  element  in  her  life  he 
had  been.  She  supposed  that  she  would  never  see  him 
again ;  and  though  this  seemed  no  stranger  to  her  than 


222  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  fact  that  they  had  ever  met,  she  found  it  difficult  to 
reconcile  herself  to  the  prospect;  for  she  had  begun  to 
think  that  nobody  else  in  the  world  could  possibly  look 
after  him,  remembering,  with  the  greatest  tenderness, 
the  time  when  he  had  been  so  dependent  on  her  care. 
She  had  never  in  her  life  known  a  man  so  intimately 
as  M'Crae.  She  didn't  suppose  that  another  man  like 
him  existed.  The  impression  which  she  recalled  most 
fondly  was  that  of  his  absolute  frankness :  the  desper- 
ate care  which  he  had  taken  to  make  their  relation 
free  once  and  for  all  from  anything  that  was  not 
strictly  true.  She  was  thankful  that  it  had  been  so. 
Musing  on  the  strange  story  of  his  life,  she  was  grate- 
ful to  him  for  having  told  her  so  much  without  extenu- 
ation or  pleading.  She  would  have  felt  less  happy  if 
he  had  not  cleared  the  way  for  their  friendship  by 
abandoning  the  name  which  he  had  worn  as  a  disguise. 
From  time  to  time,  thinking  of  his  captivity  and  of 
what  she  owed  him,  the  last  words  of  Godovius  would 
return  to  her:  "If  he  should  escape,  what  would  you 
give  me?"  She  knew  exactly  what  that  meant:  and 
when  she  thought  of  it,  even  though  the  idea  were  so 
unspeakably  horrible,  she  couldn't  help  fancying  that 
after  all  she  might  trick  Godovius,  that  she  might  keep 
him  to  his  side  of  the  bargain  and  escape  the  fulfil- 
ment of  her  own,  very  much  as  she  had  planned  to  do 
when  first  he  had  threatened  them.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  this  would  be  a  natural  thing  to  do:  that  if  she 
could  screw  up  her  courage  to  a  certain  point  she 
might  manage  to  keep  Godovius  going  and  give  M'Crae 
at  least  the  chance  of  escape.  After  all,  it  was  the  sort 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  223 

of  thing  that  a  woman  could  easily  do.  It  might  even 
be  done  without  any  too  terrible  risk.  But  always 
when  she  allowed  her  thoughts  to  turn  in  this  direc- 
tion she  would  find  herself  peculiarly  conscious  of 
the  absent  M'Crae's  disapproval.  She  remembered 
how  gravely  he  had  spoken  to  her  when  she  had  made 
her  last  confession.  "It  never  pays  to  put  things  off," 
he  had  said,  and  even  though  she  couldn't  persuade  her- 
self that  in  this  case  it  might  not  pay  after  all,  she 
felt  that  in  taking  so  great  a  risk  of  failure  and  its 
consequences  she  would  not  be  as  loyal  to  his  ideals 
as  he  would  have  expected  her  to  be.  And  so,  even 
though  the  project  pestered  her  mind,  she  felt  that 
she  was  bound  in  honour  to  abandon  it.  He  wouldn't 
like  it,  she  thought,  and  that  was  enough.  "I  am  not 
as  good  naturally  as  he  thinks  me,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "Not  nearly  as  good  as  he  is." 

Once  when  she  was  sitting  beside  James'  bed  and 
thinking  as  usual  of  M'Crae,  the  voice  of  her  brother 
invaded  her  thoughts  so  suddenly  that  she  found  her- 
self blushing.  He  said:  "I've  just  remembered.  .  .  . 
On  the  night  when  they  brought  me  back  there  was 
somebody  here.  I  asked  you  who  it  was.  ...  I  re- 
member asking.  And  you  said  it  was  a  hunter,  a 
stranger  who  had  turned  up.  You  told  me  the  name. 
Mac  .  .  .  Mac  .  .  .  Mackay.  .  .  .  No,  it  wasn't 
Mackay.  I  get  things  mixed  up.  Who  was  it?" 

"M'Crae,"  she  said.     "That  was  the  name." 

"But  what  happened  to  him?  I  don't  remember. 
I'm  sorry  I  didn't  see  him.  Where  did  he  go?" 

"He  went  away  next  day,"  she  said. 


224  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"I  hope  you  made  him  comfortable.  It's  the  least 
one  can  do.  Where  did  he  go  when  he  left  us?" 

"He  went  to  Mr.  Godovius's  house,"  she  said.  It 
amazed  her  to  find  that  it  was  easy  to  speak  the  truth. 
M'Crae  would  have  approved  of  that,  she  thought. 

"I  would  have  done  anything  to  prevent  him  going 
i  to  that  house,"  said  James. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  was  a  pity,  but  it  couldn't  be 
helped.  I  shouldn't  think  any  more  about  it.  You 
were  so  very  ill.  And  you  couldn't  help  him  going 
there." 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  staying  there  still,"  said  James. 

The  irony  of  this  conversation  troubled  her.  She 
felt  that  if  she  spoke  another  word  about  M'Crae  she 
must  either  go  mad  or  tell  James  outright  the  whole 
story  of  the  fugitive.  "But  if  I  did,"  she  thought, 
"he  wouldn't  understand.  He  can't  do  anything.  It 
would  only  be  a  waste  of  breath."  She  felt  that  she 
would  like  to  cry. 

She  was  so  lonely  and  bewildered.  It  seemed  in 
these  days  as  if  she  couldn't  take  things  in.  The  im- 
prisonment of  M'Crae  meant  so  much  more  to  her  than 
its  cause,  the  European  War  which  Godovius  had  so 
impressively  announced.  She  knew  that  England  was 
at  war  with  Germany:  that  she  and  her  brother,  still 
happily  ignorant  of  the  whole  trouble,  were  in  reality 
prisoners  on  parole :  but  for  all  that  it  didn't  seem  to 
her  possible  that  this  state  could  alter  their  position 
in  any  way.  Already,  ever  since  they  had  been  at 
Luguru  they  had  been  prisoners  serving  an  indefinite 
term  of  solitary  confinement.  She  could  not  realise 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  225 

what  war  meant  to  the  rest  of  the  world  any  more 
than  to  themselves.  Eventually,  and  bitterly,  she 
knew.  Nothing  could  be  very  much  more  terrible  to 
a  woman  than  the  prisons  of  Taborah ;  but  at  this  time 
the  war  didn't  seem  to  her  a  thing  of  pressing  im- 
portance: it  was  no  more  than  a  minor  complication 
which  might  upset  James  if  he  knew  of  it  and  make 
his  recovery  slower,  and  the  excuse — that  was  the  way 
in  which  she  regarded  it — for  M'Crae's  imprisonment. 

Yet,  all  the  time,  in  the  back  of  her  brain,  another 
indefinite  plan  was  maturing.  If  the  liberty  of  M'Crae 
might  not  be  purchased  by  the  offer  of  a  bribe  which 
she  could  never  bring  herself  to  pay,  there  remained 
at  least  a  chance — how  near  or  how  remote  she  was 
quite  unable  to  guess — of  rescuing  him  herself.  If 
once  she  could  manage  to  seek  out  the  place  in  which 
he  was  confined,  it  might  be  possible  for  her  to  help 
him  to  escape.  She  remembered  a  few  stories  of  this 
kind  which  she  had  read.  Women  had  done  such 
things  before.  They  might  be  done  again.  A  knife,  a 
rifle  and  food,  that  was  all  that  he  would  need.  A 
knife  was  an  easy  thing  to  find;  and  on  the  very  day 
of  his  capture  she  had  taken  M'Crae's  Mannlicher  from 
the  banda  and  hidden  it  beneath  her  bed. 

As  the  days  passed,  and  the  sinister  figure  of 
Godovius  failed  to  reappear,  this  plan  began  to  take 
a  more  definite  shape.  She  determined  to  make  the 
most  careful  preparations  for  M'Crae's  provision,  and 
then,  when  everything  was  ready,  to  go  herself  in 
search  of  the  captive's  prison.  And  now  it  seemed 
less  necessary  for  her  to  be  secret  in  her  planning ;  for 


226  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

James  was  still  in  his  bedroom,  while  Hamisi  and 
Onyango,  who  had  disappeared  together  with  their 
subordinate  Waluguru  on  the  day  of  M'Crae's  ar- 
rest, had  never  since  returned.  Indeed  she  had  been 
happy  to  find  that  they  stayed  away,  for  now  there  was 
no  doubt  in  her  mind  but  that  they  were  in  the  hands 
of  Sakharani  as  much  as  the  forest  people.  At  length, 
having  planned  the  matter  in  detail,  she  decided  upon 
a  day  for  her  adventure.  It  surprised  her  to  find  how 
little  she  found  herself  dreading  the  event :  it  seemed 
as  if,  in  this  particular,  she  had  almost  outgrown  the 
possibility  of  fear.  Her  violent  memory  of  the  House 
of  the  Moon  no  longer  disturbed  her.  She  was  even 
prepared  to  meet  Godovius.  Nothing  mattered  if  only 
she  might  free  M'Crae. 

The  day  which  she  chose  for  her  attempt  was  the 
fourth  after  M'Crae's  arrest.  During  the  interval  she 
had  never  left  the  mission  compound.  Now,  leaving 
James  in  what  seemed  like  a  natural  sleep,  she  left  the 
garden  in  the  first  cool  of  the  evening  at  the  back  of 
the  sisal  hedge  by  Mr.  Bullace's  banda.  The  bush 
was  very  quiet  in  this  hour.  The  silence  seemed  to 
argue  well  for  her  success.  She  herself  would  be  as 
quiet  as  the  evening. 

She  had  chosen  this  unusual  way  of  leaving  the  mis- 
sion so  that  she  might  not  be  seen  by  any  lurking  na- 
tives on  the  forest  road.  The  smooth  peak  of  Kilima 
ja  Mweze  still  served  her  for  a  guide,  and  feeling  that 
she  could  rely  a  little  on  her  sense  of  direction^  she 
had  expected  to  enter  the  forest  at  an  unusual  angle 
and  make  straight  for  the  hill  itself  and  the  house  of 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  227 

Godovius  without  ever  touching  the  zigzag  path  which 
climbed  the  terraces.  She  stepped  very  quietly  into 
the  bush,  and  soon  struck  one  of  those  tenuous  paths 
which  the  goats  of  the  Waluguru  make  on  the  hill- 
sides where  they  are  pastured.  A  matter  of  great 
luck  this  seemed  to  her:  for  she  knew  that  it  must 
surely  lead  directly  to  some  village  in  the  forest.  She 
began  to  hurry,  so  that  she  might  advance  some  way 
into  the  forest  before  the  light  failed.  She  ran  till 
she  lost  her  breath,  and  when  she  stopped  and  heard 
the  beating  of  her  own  heart,  she  was  thrilled  with  a 
delicious  anticipation  of  success.  It  was  all  very  ad- 
venturous, and  her  progress,  so  far,  had  seemed  so 
secret  that  she  couldn't  help  feeling  that  luck  was  with 
her. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  was  disillusioned. 
Emerging  from  the  path  in  the  bush  into  a  wider 
sandy  lacuna,  she  found  herself  suddenly  faced  by 
Hamisi,  a  transfigured  Hamisi,  clothed  in  the  German 
colonial  uniform,  and  armed  with  a  Mauser  rifle. 
With  him  stood  a  second  askari,  one  of  the  Waluguru 
whom  she  did  not  know.  Both  of  them  smiled  as 
though  they  had  been  expecting  her,  showing  the  gap 
in  the  lower  incisor  teeth  which  the  Waluguru  knock 
out  in  imitation  of  the  Masai.  Hamisi  saluted  her, 
and  she  began  to  talk  to  him,  much  as  a  woman  who 
talks  in  an  ingratiating  way  to  a  dog  of  which  she  is 
afraid.  But  from  the  first  she  realised  that  it  was  no 
good  talking.  She  guessed  that  these  two  men  were 
only  part  of  a  cordon  of  sentries  drawn  about  the  mis- 
sion, and  that  Godovius  was  relying  on  other  things 


228  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

than  the  parole  which  she  had  broken  so  lightly.  It 
hadn't  struck  her  until  that  moment  that  she  had  ac- 
tually broken  it.  In  a  flash  she  began  to  wonder  if 
M'Crae  would  approve.  It  was  strange  how  this  dour 
new  morality  of  his  impressed  her  even  in  this  emer- 
gency. 

From  the  first  she  realised  that  her  game  was  up. 
She  saw  how  simple  she  had  been  in  underrating  the 
carefulness  of  her  enemy.  "How  he  would  laugh  at 
me,"  she  thought.  "He"  was  M'Crae.  She  knew 
very  well  that  Hamisi,  for  all  his  smiles,  had  orders 
not  to  let  her  pass.  Indeed  she  was  rather  frightened 
of  this  new  and  militant  Hamisi.  She  made  the  best 
of  a  bad  job,  and  rated  him  soundly  in  kitchen  Swahili 
for  having  left  her  in  the  lurch  when  the  bwana  was 
ill.  .  .  .  Hamisi  scratched  his  back  under  the  new  jer- 
sey and  smiled.  He  was  evidently  very  proud  of  his 
cartridge  belt  and  rifle  and  the  big  aluminium  water- 
bottle  which  he  wore  slung  over  his  shoulder. 

In  the  failing  light  Eva  made  her  way  back  to  the 
mission.  Rather  a  pathetic  return  after  her  plans  and 
hopes.  In  the  dim  kitchen  at  the  mission  she  saw  the 
packet  of  food  which  she  had  prepared  for  M'Crae. 
She  had  put  the  strips  of  biltong  and  the  biscuits  with 
a  tin  of  sardines  and  a  single  cake  of  chocolate  into 
a  little  linen  bag.  In  spite  of  her  disappointment  she 
could  almost  have  smiled  at  her  own  simplicity. 

For  all  that,  the  failure  of  this  enterprise  opened 
her  eyes  to  a  great  many  things  which  she  had  stu- 
pidly missed.  Hamisi  in  a  burst  of  confidence  and 
pride  in  his  equipment  had  told  her  that  he  was  no 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  229 

longer  a  house-boy  but  a  soldier,  a  soldier  of  Sak- 
harani ;  that  Sakharani  was  going  to  give  him  not  five 
rupees  a  month  but  twenty;  that  he,  being  a  soldier, 
could  have  as  many  women  as  he  liked  wherever  he 
went,  with  more  tembo  than  he  could  drink,  and  minge 
nyama  .  .  .  plenty  of  meat.  It  became  clear  to  Eva 
that  Godovius  was  busy  raising  an  armed  levy  of  the 
Waluguru.  That  was  the  meaning  of  many  strange 
sounds  which  she  had  heard  in  the  forest  but  hardly 
noticed  before :  the  blowing  of  a  bugle,  and  the  angry 
stutter  of  rifle  fire.  She  began  remotely  to  appreci- 
ate what  war  meant:  how  this  wretched,  down-trod- 
den people  had  suddenly  begun  to  enjoy  the  privileges 
and  licence  of  useful  cannon-fodder.  After  that  eve- 
ning she  was  conscious  all  the  time  of  this  warlike 
activity.  All  day  Godovius  was  drilling  them  hard, 
and  at  night  she  heard  the  rolling  of  the  drums,  and 
sometimes  saw  reflected  in  the  sky  the  lights  of  great 
fires  which  they  lighted  in  their  camps.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  this  armed  force  she  wondered  however  she 
could  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  think  that  it  was  pos- 
sible to  rescue  M'Crae.  She  knew  once  and  for  all 
that  the  idea  of  succeeding  in  this  was  ridiculous.  The 
knowledge  that  she  and  James  were  really  prisoners 
began  to  get  on  her  nerves.  She  could  not  imagine 
what  would  be  the  end  of  all  this.  She  almost  wished, 
whatever  it  might  be,  that  the  end  would  come  soon. 
It  came,  indeed,  sooner  than  she  had  expected. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


T?OR  two  days  the  forest  below  Luguru  echoed  the 
*•  German  bugle  calls  and  the  sound  of  rifle  fire.  At 
night  the  throbbing  of  drums  never  ceased,  and  the 
reflection  of  great  fires  lit  along  the  edge  of  the  bush 
reddened  the  sky.  During  this  time  the  prisoners  at 
Luguru  heard  nothing  of  Godovius.  James,  who  was 
still  keeping  to  his  room,  had  not  been  able  to  notice 
the  absence  of  the  mission  boys.  Now  he  was  quickly 
regaining  strength  and  confidence.  It  was  strange  how 
brightly  the  flame  of  enthusiasm  burned  in  his  poor 
body.  As  soon  as  the  cuts  on  his  hands  were  healed 
he  began  to  consort  once  more  with  his  friends  the 
prophets,  and  Eva  was  almost  thankful  for  this,  for 
it  kept  him  employed  as  no  other  recreation  could  have 
done.  Indeed,  beneath  this  shadow  of  which  she  alone 
was  conscious,  their  solitary  life  became  extraordinarily 
tranquil.  The  atmosphere  impressed  Eva  in  its  de- 
ceptiveness.  All  the  time  she  was  waiting  for  the 
next  move  of  Godovius,  .almost  wishing  that  the  pe- 
riod of  suspense  might  end,  and  something,  however 
desperate,  happen.  One  supposes  that  Godovius  was 
busy  with  the  training  of  his  levies,  instructing  them 
in  the  science  of  slaughter,  flattering  them  in  their 
new  vocation  of  askaris  with  the  utmost  licence  in 

230 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  231 

the  way  of  food  and  drink  and  lust,  as  became  good 
soldiers  of  Germany.  That  was  the  meaning  of  those 
constant  marchings  and  counter-marchings  by  day,  and 
the  fires  which  lit  the  sky  at  night  above  their  camps 
upon  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

The  failure  of  her  feeble  attempt  at  an  escape  had 
shown  Eva  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  help 
M'Crae  in  the  way  which  she  had  planned.  Again 
and  again  the  idea  of  bargaining  with  Godovius  re- 
turned to  her.  It  came  into  her  head  so  often,  and 
was  so  often  rejected  beneath  the  imagined  censure 
of  the  prisoner  that,  in  the  end,  her  sense  of  bewil- 
derment and  hopelessness  was  too  much  for  her.  She 
could  not  sleep  at  night,  even  when  the  drums,  at 
last,  were  quiet.  The  strain  was  too  acute  for  any 
woman  to  have  borne. 

In  the  end  even  James,  who  never  noticed  any- 
thing, became  aware  of  her  pale  face  and  haggard 
eyes.  Anybody  but  James  would  have  seen  them 
long  before.  He  said: 

"You're  not  looking  well,  Eva.  .  .  .  You  don't 
look  at  all  well.  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  be  ill. 
You've  taken  your  quinine?  What's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

Rather  wearily  she  laughed  him  off ;  but  James  was 
a  persistent  creature.  He  wouldn't  let  her  excuses 
stand:  and  since  it  didn't  seem  to  her  worth  while 
sticking  to  them,  she  thought  she  might  as  well  tell 
him  everything  and  be  done  with  it.  Not  quite 
everything.  .  .  .  She  didn't  tell  him  about  M'Crae, 
for  she  felt  that  his  clumsiness  would  be  certain  to 


232  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

irritate  her.  She  told  him,  as  simply  as  she  could, 
that  they  were  both  prisoners;  that  England  was  at 
war  with  Germany,  and  how  she  had  promised  Godo- 
vius  that  they  wouldn't  try  to  escape.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose it  will  make  any  difference  to  us  out  here,  so 
far  away  from  everywhere,"  she  said.  "That's  why 
I  didn't  tell  you  before.  And  of  course  you  were 
too  ill  to  be  bothered." 

At  first  he  was  only  annoyed  that  she  had  kept  him 
in  the  dark.  Then  his  imagination  began  to  play 
with  the  idea.  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  rather  unsteadily,  and  talk  to  her  as  his 
thoughts  formed  themselves.  Eva  was  too  miser- 
able to  listen. 

"This  is  terrible,"  he  said.  "A  monstrous  thing. 
Here  it  may  be  nothing,  but  in  Europe  it  will  be  ter- 
rible beyond  description.  This  is  the  awful  result 
of  the  world's  sin.  Europe  is  like  the  cities  of  the 
plain.  All  the  evil  of  her  cities  will  be  washed  out 
in  blood.  It  is  an  awful  awakening  for  those  places 
of  pleasure.  London  and  Berlin.  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah. This  is  the  vengeance  of  God.  It  has  been 
foretold.  No  war  will  ever  be  like  this  war.  If  the 
peoples  had  hearkened  to  the  word  of  God.  .  .  .  For 
He  is  slow  to  anger." 

Eva  had  never  imagined  that  he  would  take  it  so 
hardly.  She  hadn't  for  a  moment  envisaged  the  aw- 
fulness  of  the  catastrophe.  All  the  time  she  had  been 
thinking  not  of  the  agony  of  Europe  nor  of  the  pos- 
sible consequences  to  themselves,  but  only  of  M'Crae, 
whom  the  accident  had  thrown  into  Godovius's  hands. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  233 

Even  when  she  had  listened  to  James'  very  eloquent 
oration  she  found  herself  thinking  of  the  helpless 
figure  which  the  Waluguru  askaris  had  carried  into 
the  bush,  of  the  knotted  veins  on  his  arm  beneath 
the  bonds. 

That  evening  the  fires  in  the  askaris  camp  shone 
brighter  than  ever,  the  throbbing  of  the  drums  more 
passionate.  James,  realising  now  the  meaning  of  all 
that  distant  noise  and  light,  became  restless  and  ex- 
cited. He  would  not  be  content  to  go  to  bed  early, 
as  Eva  had  intended.  He  said  that  he  would  be 
happier  sitting  out  on  the  stoep  in  a  long  chair,  lis- 
tening to  all  that  was  going  on  below.  After  their 
evening  meal  they  sat  out  there  together,  and  while 
Eva  nearly  fell  asleep  from  sheer  tiredness,  he  talked 
as  much  to  himself  as  to  her.  It  was  a  night  of  the 
most  exquisite  calm.  Beneath  them  the  thorn  bush 
lay  soft  and  silvered  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  The 
upper  sky  was  so  bright  that  they  could  even  see  be- 
yond the  forest  the  outlines  of  the  hills.  In  all  that 
vast  expanse  of  quiet  land  only  one  spot  of  violent 
colour  appeared,  in  a  single  patch  of  red  sky  above 
the  German  camps. 

"You  see  it  burning  there,"  said  James.  "That 
is  War.  That  is  what  War  means.  A  harsh  and 
brutal  thing  in  the  middle  of  the  quietness  of  life.  A 
fierce,  unholy,  unnatural  thing." 

She  said  "Yes,"  but  that  was  because  she  did  not 
want  him  to  ask  her  any  questions. 

A  strange  night.  From  time  to  time  the  lightened 
circle  of  sky  would  glow  more  brightly,  the  drums 


234  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

throb  as  wildly  as  if  all  the  drummers  had  gone  mad 
together.  Sometimes  the  unheeding  distance  muf- 
fled their  sound,  so  that  only  a  puff  of  wind  brought 
it  to  their  ears,  waxing  and  waning  like  the  pulsa- 
tions of  a  savage  heart.  Once,  in  the  nearer  bush, 
they  heard  the  voice  of  a  man  crying  out  like  an  ani- 
mal. Eva  begged  James  to  go  to  bed.  The  near- 
ness of  the  sound  frightened  her. 

"You  can't  stay  here  all  night,"  she  said.  "Soon 
you  will  be  cold,  and  that  means  fever." 

He  was  almost  rough  with  her.  "Leave  me  alone 
.  .  .  please  leave  me  alone.  I  want  to  think.  I 
couldn't  think  indoors." 

Suddenly  they  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  rifle 
fire.  All  over  the  bush  people  were  firing  guns.  They 
couldn't  understand  it.  At  first  it  came  from  very 
near,  but  gradually  the  firing  died  away  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  forest. 

"It  must  sound  like  that,"  said  James,  "in  a  mov- 
ing battle :  a  running  fight  that  is  passing  out  of  hear- 
ing." 

At  nine  o'clock  the  drums  and  the  firing  ceased. 
Even  the  fires  in  the  camp  must  have  been  allowed 
to  die  down,  for  the  silver  of  the  moon  washed  all 
the  sky.  The  bush  stretched  as  grey  and  silent  as  if 
no  living  creature  moved  in  it;  and  with  the  silence 
returned  a  sense  of  the  definite  vastness  of  that  moon- 
lit land,  the  immemorial  impassivity  of  the  great 
continent.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  melancholy  sight. 

"In  Europe  millions  of  men  are  slaughtering  each 
other,"  James  whispered. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  235 

"Now  you  will  go  to  bed  ?"  she  pleaded. 

He  took  her  arm,  as  though  he  were  really  un- 
conscious of  it,  and  allowed  her  to  help  him  to  his 
feet.  They  stood  there  still  for  a  moment,  and  while 
they  watched,  both  of  them  became  suddenly  aware 
of  the  small  figure  of  a  man  running  towards  the 
bungalow  from  the  edge  of  the  bush.  His  clothes 
and  his  face  were  of  the  pale  colour  of  the  moon- 
light, so  that  he  might  have  been  a  ghost,  and  when 
he  caught  sight  of  their  two  figures  on  the  stoep  he 
waved  his  hand.  It  was  his  right  hand  that  he  waved. 
The  other  arm  was  missing.  While  James  stood 
wondering  what  had  happened,  Eva  was  running 
down  the  garden  path  to  meet  him.  Half-way  they 
met.  M'Crae  could  see  the  tears  in  Eva's  eyes  shin- 
ing in  the  moonlight.  He  had  never  seen  her  face 
so  pale  and  beautiful. 


ii 

M'Crae  came  to  the  point  quickly,  too  quickly,  in- 
deed, for  James,  whom  the  sight  of  this  passionate 
meeting  had  bewildered. 

"We  have  no  time  to  lose,"  he  said.  "My  rifle 
is  in  the  bcmda.  I  suppose  Mr.  Warburton  has  a 
rifle  of  some  sort?"  Of  course  James  hadn't. 

"And  food.  ...  It  may  take  us  nearly  a  week. 
Three  of  us.  But  we  mustn't  be  overburdened." 

James  waved  his  arms.  One  can  imagine  the  ges- 
ture of  this  lanky  figure  in  the  long  black  coat  with 
his  head  in  a  bandage. 


236  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  M'Crae.  ...  I  hope 
I  have  the  name  right.  ...  I  don't  understand  the 
meaning  of  this.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  ex- 
plain?" 

"There's  no  time  for  explanation,"  said  M'Crae. 
"I'm  saying  that  we  have  to  leave  here,  all  three  of 
us,  as  quickly  as  we  can.  It'll  be  a  hard  journey  in 
front  of  us,  but  I'm  thinking  it's  better  to  be  driven 
than  to  be  dead.  That's  what  it  comes  to.  ... 
There's  no  time  for  talking." 

He  told  them  swiftly  and  dryly  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him  after  his  arrest.  How  the  askaris  had 
dragged  him  to  the  House  of  the  Moon  and  left  him, 
with  hands  and  feet  bound,  in  a  shanty  at  the  back 
of  the  long  white  building ;  how  the  old  woman  whose 
tongue  had  been  cut  out  had  brought  him  porridge 
of  mealie  meal  in  a  bowl,  and  how  he  had  been 
forced  to  lap  it  like  a  dog.  Once  Godovius  had  been 
to  see  him,  bringing  the  pleasant  announcement  that 
he  was  soon  to  be  shot:  soon,  but  not  yet;  that  Eng- 
land was  already  paying  for  her  infamy  in  the  sack 
of  London  and  the  destruction  of  her  fleet.  "In  a 
year's  time,"  he  had  said,  "no  swine  of  an  English- 
man will  be  able  to  show  his  face  in  Africa.  The 
black  men  will  laugh  at  you.  You  have  already  lost 
South  Africa.  The  German  flag  is  flying  in  Pre- 
toria and  Capetown.  It  is  probable  that  you  will  live 
to  hear  worse  things  than  this,  even  though  you  do 
not  see  the  end." 

M'Crae  did  not  tell  them  what  Godovius  had  said 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  237 

of  Eva,  nor  of  the  anger  which  had  nearly  driven 
him  mad  in  his  bonds. 

"And  then,"  he  said,  "he  came  again  to-night.  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  changed.  He  was  pretty  near 
the  colour  of  his  uniform.  'If  I  cut  the  ropes/  he 
said,  'will  you  promise  that  you  will  not  attack  me?' 
A  ludicrous  question  to  a  one-armed  man,  cramped 
with  captivity  and  weaponless !" 

M'Crae  had  given  his  word,  and  Godovius  had  re- 
leased him.  "Now  listen,"  he  said.  "You  are  an 
Englishman  and  I  am  a  German.  That  is  one  thing. 
For  others  we  have  good  cause  to  hate  each  other. 
War  is  war,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  hate.  But  besides 
this  we  are  both  white  men.  At  Luguru  there  is  a 
white  woman.  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  For  the 
moment  our  hatred  must  go,  for  we  are  all  in  the 
same  danger.  Where  the  danger  has  come  from  I 
cannot  tell  you.  Probably  it  is  part  of  your  damned 
English  scheming.  The  English  have  always  paid 
other  races  to  fight  their  battles.  You  know  that  this 
colony  is  now  one  armed  camp.  In  every  tribe  we 
have  raised  levies  and  armed  them.  My  black  swine, 
the  Waluguru,  are  getting  out  of  hand.  To-day  I 
have  shot  seven  of  them;  but  things  are  still  dan- 
gerous. It  may  spread.  All  the  armed  natives  of 
Africa  may  rise  against  us,  German  and  English 
alike.  They  hate  us  ...  we  know  that  .  .  .  and  in 
an  isolated  place  like  this  we  shall  stand  no  chance. 
To-night,  on  my  way  home,  I  have  been  fired  at  by 
my  own  people.  They  may  try  to  burn  the  house 
over  me.  That  will  not  be  so  easy,  for  I  have  a  ma- 


238  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

chine  gun.  But  the  mission  they  will  strip  and  burn 
without  trouble.  You  can  think  of  the  fate  of  your 
two  English.  And  I  cannot  save  them;  perhaps  I 
cannot  save  myself.  Somehow  they  must  get  to 
M'papwa,  where  there  are  plenty  of  white  men  to 
protect  them.  I  am  a  German  soldier.  My  post  is 
here;  and  in  any  case  I  must  stay  and  teach  these 
black  devils  what  the  German  rule  means  in  their 
own  blood.  You  are  an  enemy  and  a  prisoner.  See, 
I  give  you  your  liberty,  and  in  exchange  you  give  me 
your  word  that  you  will  return  here  when  you  have 
saved  them.  I  am  taking  the  risk  of  letting  you  go. 
If  we  meet  again  I  shall  know  that  you  too  are  a 
soldier  and  worthy  of  my  nobility.  Miss  Eva  is  in 
your  hands.  You  had  better  go  quickly." 

He  had  asked  for  arms,  and  Godovius,  after  a 
moment  of  hesitation  and  distrust,  had  given  him  a 
Mauser  pistol.  "You  will  put  it  in  your  belt,"  he 
said.  "I  shall  watch  you  go.  You  will  hold  your 
hand  above  your  head.  Remember,  I  have  a  rifle, 
and  you  will  be  covered  until  you  are  out  of  range." 

M'Crae  had  laughed.  "I  hate  all  you  damned  Eng- 
landers,"  said  Godovius.  "You  have  no  sense  of  se- 
riousness. I  do  not  do  this  of  my  own  will.  But  I 
love  that  woman.  I  would  rather  she  were  killed  by 
my  hand  than  given  to  the  Waluguru.  And  I  wish 
her  to  live.  You  understand?" 

M'Crae  understood.  His  journey  to  the  mission 
had  not  been  easy:  for  his  body  was  still  cramped 
by  his  long  confinement  and  the  woods  were  full  of 
watching  Waluguru  whom  it  had  been  difficult  to 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  239 

evade.  "At  the  present  moment,"  he  said,  "they  are 
all  about  the  bush  round  the  house.  As  I  said,  there'll 
be  no  time.  Miss  Eva  will  put  together  some  food, 
and  I  will  slip  out  again  to  see  where  the  way  is  open/" 

In  Eva's  mind  there  was  no  questioning.  In  what- 
ever other  way  she  may  have  regarded  M'Crae,  she 
trusted  him  without  reservation.  She  had  reason  to 
trust  him.  As  soon  as  he  gave  the  word  she  was 
ready  to  obey.  She  remembered  the  parcel  of  food 
which  she  had  made  ready  for  M'Crae  on  the  evening 
of  her  hopeless  expedition,  and  turned  to  go.  The 
voice  of  James  recalled  her. 

"Eva  .  .  .  where  are  you  going?  You  had  bet- 
ter stay  here  for  a  moment." 

"There  is  no  time  for  waiting,"  said  M'Crae.  "I've 
told  you.  .  .  ." 

James  waved  his  arms.  "That  is  for  me  to  de- 
cide," he  said.  "The  matter  must  be  considered.  It 
is  possible,  sir,  that  your  story  is  true.  .  .  ." 

"James!"  she  cried. 

"Eva,  I  must  ask  you  to  hear  me.  ...  I  say  that 
this  man's  story  may  be  true.  But  how  can  we  know  ? 
We  have  no  particular  reason  to  believe  him.  Think 
a  moment.  How  do  we  know  that  this  is  not  some 
new  deviltry  of  that  dreadful  man?  After  all,  it  is 
not  unreasonable  to  suspect  a  messenger  who  comes 
from  that  house.  We  know  nothing  of  him  .  .  . 
nothing  at  all." 

"Oh,  but  we  do  .  .  ."  she  said. 

"Nothing.  This  isn't  a  matter  in  which  a  woman 
is  competent  to  judge.  It's  a  matter  for  a  man.  I'm 


240  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

your  brother.  There's  no  one  else  to  stand  between 
you  and  the  world.  You  know  nothing  of  the 
world's  wickedness.  No  doubt,  in  your  inexperience, 
you  would  trust  the  first  man  you  met  with  your 
honour.  Thank  God  I  am  here,  and  ready  to  do  my 
duty." 

"It's  your  duty  that  I  am  showing  to  you,"  said 
M'Crae.  "Evidently  you  haven't  taken  in  what  I've 
been  telling  you.  Godovius's  natives  have  got  out  of 
hand.  They're  armed.  If  you  stay  here  we  shall  all 
be  butchered,  all  three  of  us.  Of  course  I  should 
stay  with  you.  And  I  should  rather  kill  your  sister 
with  my  own  hands  than  let  her  be  taken  by  the 
Waluguru.  We  have  to  try  and  get  away  in  five 
minutes  at  the  most,  and  make  for  the  Central  Rail- 
way, where  we  shall  be  taken  prisoners  by  the  Ger- 
mans. Perhaps  we  will  not  get  there.  That  is  in 
God's  hands.  But  we  must  have  a  try.  'God  helps 
them  that  help  themselves'  may  not  be  Scripture,  but 
it's  common-sense.  You'll  admit  that  I'm  reason- 
able." 

"You  may  be  reasonable,  sir,"  said  James,  "but  I'm 
not  going  to  be  ordered  about  in  my  own  house." 

"The  alternative  is  being  killed  in  it  For  God's 
sake,  man,  don't  trifle." 

James  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"Perhaps  I  am  wrong  ...  I  don't  know.  My 
head's  in  a  muddle  after  the  other  night  I  can't 
think." 

"Miss^Eva,"  said  M'Crae,  "get  everything  ready 
quickly.  Five  minutes  ..." 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  241 

She  said  "Yes." 

M'Crae  turned  to  James.  "Man,"  he  said,  "do  you 
realise  the  awful  responsibility  that  you're  taking  upon 
yourself  in  the  sin  of  your  pride?  Would  you  see 
what  you  saw  the  other  night,  and  your  sister  in  it?" 

For  the  moment  he  was  very  Scotch,  and  the  ac- 
tual intensity  of  his  words  made  them  impressive. 
.  .  .  Some  peculiar  quality  in  this  appeal  made  James 
crumple  up. 

"God  forgive  me,"  he  sobbed.  "God  forgive  me. 
.  .  .  You  had  better  take  her.  If  it  is  to  be,  the 
sooner  the  better.  .  .  ." 

"Very  well  then,"  said  M'Crae.  "Hurry  up  and 
get  some  clothes  on.  You  can't  set  out  in  pyjama 
legs  and  a  black  coat.  Let  me  help  you  if  you  are 
weak." 

By  this  time  the  pitiful  figure  had  got  over  his 
sobs.  Once  more  he  was  formal  and  precise.  He 
spoke  very  much  as  if  he  were  conducting  a  Pleasant 
Sunday  Afternoon  at  home. 

"You  have  mistaken  me,  Mr.  M'Crae,"  he  said. 
"I  have  given  you  my  authority  to  take  my  sister. 
You  realise,  no  doubt,  the  trust  which  that  implies, 
and  that  we  are  quite  in  your  hands.  But  my  own  po- 
sition is  quite  different  Perhaps  you  do  not  know 
what  religion  means  to  a  man,  or  how  a  man  in  my 
position  regards  his  mission.  I  was  sent  to  Africa 
to  devote  myself  to  these  unfortunate  people.  I  have 
a  responsibility.  If  the  devil  has  entered  into  their 
hearts  this  is  the  occasion  in  which  they  need  me 
most.  You  spoke  just  now  a  little  contemptuously 


242  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

of  Scripture.  I  am  a  minister,  and  perhaps  it  means 
more  to  me.  At  any  rate  these  words,  if  you'll  have 
the  patience  to  hear  me,  mean  a  great  deal :  'He  that 
is  an  hireling,  and  not  the  shepherd,  whose  own  the 
sheep  are  not,  seeth  the  wolf  coming  and  leaveth  the 
sheep  and  fteeth*  You  know  who  spoke  those  words. 
Mine  must  be  the  part  of  the  good  shepherd.  If  I 
behaved  as  a  hireling  I  could  not  bear  to  live." 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  reason,"  said  M'Crae; 
"I  beseech  you  to  listen  to  it.  A  dead  shepherd  is  of 
very  little  use  to  his  flock." 

James  glowed.  It  was  extraordinary  to  see  the 
pale  creature  expand. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "Mr.  M'Crae,  that  is  where  you 
make  the  greatest  of  mistakes.  It  was  a  dead  Shep- 
herd who  redeemed  the  world.  If  you  are  a  Chris- 
tian you  cannot  suggest  that  that  sacrifice  was  of  no 
use." 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  argument,"  said  M'Crae. 
"I  recognise  your  point  of  view.  Against  my  will 
I  respect  it.  I  think  you  are  an  honest  man  and  that's 
the  best  title  I  can  give  you."  They  shook  hands. 
It  is  an  amazing  commentary  on  the  naturalness  of 
theatrical  conventions  that  common  men,  in  moments 
of  the  greatest  stress,  tend  to  the  most  obvious  ges- 
tures. M'Crae,  gripping  the  hand  of  James,  noticed 
that  it  was  as  cold  as  if  the  man  were  already  dead. 

They  spoke  no  more,  for  Eva  entered  the  room, 
carrying  the  linen  satchel  full  of  food  and  a  couple 
of  water-bottles.  She  saw  the  two  men  standing  in 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  243 

silence.  "You  are  ready?"  she  said.  "You've  set- 
tled everything?" 

"Yes,  we've  settled  it,"  said  M'Crae.  "But  your 
brother  will  not  come.  He  says  that  his  duty  lies 
here." 

"Oh,  James,  but  you  can't !"  she  cried.  "You  poor 
dear,  of  course  you  can't!" 

James  shook  his  head.  "We  can't  argue,"  he  said. 
"Mr.  M'Crae  says  there's  no  time." 

"Then  we  will  all  stay  together,"  she  said. 

She  laid  her  hands  on  James'  shoulders  and  looked 
up  at  him.  He  smiled. 

"No,  Eva.  ...  It  is  as  much  your  duty  to  go  as 
mine  to  stay.  You  .  .  .  you  must  fall  in  with  my 
wishes  .  .  .  you  must  be  reasonable  .  .  .  you  must 
be  a  good  girl.  .  .  ."  He  stroked  her  cheek,  and  the 
unfamiliar  tenderness  of  the  action  made  her  burst 
into  tears.  She  sobbed  quietly  on  the  breast  of  his 
black  coat.  Quite  gently  he  disengaged  her  hands. 

"Now  you  must  go,  dear.  I  am  trusting  you  to 
Mr.  M'Crae.  God  keep  you." 

They  kissed.  They  had  never  kissed  each  other 
since  they  were  children. 

"Oh,  James  .  .  ."  she  said. 

"I  am  very  happy  ...  I  am  perfectly  happy.  .  .  ." 

"Come  along,"  said  M'Crae  in  a  peculiarly  harsh 
voice  which  he  did  not  know  himself. 

She  slipped  the  band  of  the  Mannlicher  over  his 
shoulder  and  they  left  the  house.  Left  alone,  James 
sighed  and  straightened  his  hair.  He  went  on  to  the 
stoep  and  looked  out  over  the  silent  lands.  The  grow- 


244  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

ing  moon  now  sailed  so  splendidly  up  the  sky  that  he 
became  conscious  of  the  earth's  impetuous  spin;  he 
saw  the  outstretched  continent  as  part  of  its  vast  con- 
vexity and  himself,  in  this  moment  of  extreme  ex- 
altation, an  infinitesimal  speck  in  the  midst  of  it. 
Even  in  the  face  of  this  appalling  lesson  in  propor- 
tion his  soul  was  confident  and  deliciously  thrilled  with 
expectation  of  some  imminent  miracle.  His  lips 
moved : 

"And  fear  not  them  which  kill  the  body,  but  are 
not  able  to  kill  the  soul;  but  rather  fear  him  which  is 
able  to  destroy  both  soul  and  body  in  hell.  Are  not 
five  sparrows  .  .  ."  He  moistened  his  lips  ".  .  . 
five  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing?  and  not  one  of  them 
is  forgotten  before  God." 


in 

M'Crae  and  Eva  moved  quietly  through  the  gar- 
den. The  shadow  of  the  avenue  of  flamboyant  trees 
shielded  them  from  the  moonlight,  their  steps  could 
scarcely  be  heard  upon  the  sandy  floor,  and  she  could 
only  see  M'Crae,  moving  swiftly  in  front  of  her, 
where  the  blotches  of  silver  falling  from  the  inter- 
stices of  woven  boughs  flaked  his  ghostly  figure,  the 
hump  of  the  knapsack  slung  across  his  shoulders,  or 
sometimes  the  blue  barrel  of  the  Mannlicher  which 
he  trailed.  She  followed  without  question,  pausing 
when  he  halted,  creeping  forward  when  he  moved: 
and,  deeply  though  she  trusted  him,  she  found  her- 
self wondering  at  the  strangeness  of  the  whole  pro- 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  245 

ceeding,  at  its  fantastic  unreality,  at  the  incredible 
perversity  of  a  chance  which  had  sent  them  out  into 
the  darkness  together  on  this  debatable  quest.  Her 
reason  told  her  that  the  two  of  them  were  in  stark 
reality  running  for  their  lives:  that  in  all  probability 
she  had  said  good-bye  to  James  for  the  last  time :  that 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  She  couldn't  be- 
lieve this.  It  was  no  good,  she  told  herself,  trying 
to  believe  it.  It  was  simply  a  monstrous  fact  which 
must  be  accepted  without  questioning.  It  was  no 
good  trying  to  think  about  the  business  which  must 
simply  be  accepted.  She  sighed  to  herself  and  fol- 
lowed M'Crae. 

At  the  corner  of  the  banda  he  halted.  "Wait  here 
till  I  come  back,"  he  whispered.  "Stand  in  the 
shadow  and  wait." 

He  disappeared.  He  seemed  to  her  to  be  making 
a  great  deal  of  noise.  She  couldn't  understand  it, 
for  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  ought  really  to  be  mak- 
ing no  noise  at  all.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  to  go  more 
quietly.  She  felt  inclined  to  follow  him  and  explain 
this  to  him.  For  quite  a  long  time  she  heard  his 
movements,  and  then,  in  a  little  interval  of  silence,  the 
sound  of  another  body  which  had  lain  concealed  be- 
hind the  banda,  following  him.  Then  she  wanted  to 
cry  out  and  warn  him,  or  even  to  run  after  him. 
She  wished  that  wherever  he  was  going  he  would 
have  taken  her  with  him.  She  remembered  his  last 
whisper,  "Wait  here  till  I  come  back,"  and  waited 
.  .  .  endlessly  waited.  It  was  not  easy.  It  would 
have  been  easier,  she  thought,  if  she  had  not  been 


246  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

left  so  near  home.  There,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
acacias,  she  had  not  yet  taken  the  final,  irrevocable 
step.  There  still  remained  for  her  an  avenue  of  re- 
treat. 

Here,  only  a  few  feet  away  from  her,  was  the 
opening  of  Mr.  Bullace's  banda.  The  moonlight 
showed  her,  through  the  doorway,  the  table  on  which 
her  work-basket  lay  and  beside  it  an  open  book,  which 
she  had  been  reading  only  a  few  hours  ...  or  was 
it  centuries?  .  .  .  before.  At  the  other  end  of  her 
dark  tunnel  she  could  see  the  angle  of  the  house,  with 
its  festoons  of  bougainvillea ;  and  all  this  looked  so 
homely  and  safe,  so  utterly  removed  from  the  night- 
mare atmosphere  of  danger  and  flight.  These  things, 
it  seemed  to  her,  were  solid  and  permanent,  the  oth- 
ers no  more  than  a  mad,  confusing  dream.  And 
there,  in  his  little  room,  was  James.  The  whole  busi- 
ness could  be  nothing  but  a  dream  which  had  ridicu- 
lously invaded  her  consciousness.  She  felt  that  if 
she  were  to  go  back  to  the  silent  house  and  find  James, 
and  slip  once  more  into  the  pleasant  order  which  she 
had  created,  she  might  wake  and  find  herself  happy 
again.  And  yet,  all  the  while,  she  was  remember- 
ing the  whisper  of  M'Crae,  "Stand  here  in  the 
shadow.  .  .  .  Wait  till  I  come  back  again,"  and  found 
herself  obeying.  Not  without  revolt.  It  was  too  bad 
of  him,  she  thought,  to  try  her  in  this  way,  to  leave 
her  there  in  the  threatening  shadow.  Too  bad  of 
him.  .  .  . 

In  the  darkness  she  heard  a  shot  fired.  Again  si- 
lence. Perhaps  that  was  the  end  of  it.  But  though 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  247 

the  idea  tortured  her,  the  sound  of  that  report  did 
actually  bring  her  to  herself  again.  It  showed  her 
that  the  danger  was  real  after  all.  She  pulled  her- 
self together.  "I  must  wait  here  until  he  comes,"  she 
thought.  "Even  if  it's  for  hours  and  hours  I  must 
wait  here.  .  .  ." 

It  was  not  for  very  long.  Suddenly  she  became 
conscious  of  a  shadow  behind  her,  and  before  she 
had  time  to  cry  out  she  saw  that  it  was  M'Crae,  who 
beckoned  her  from  the  end  of  the  avenue  nearest  to 
the  house.  .  .  .  He  stood  waiting  for  her,  and 
though  no  word  passed  between  them,  she  followed. 

Their  way  led  at  right  angles  to  the  one  which  he 
had  taken  at  first,  close  under  the  shadow  of  the 
house.  On  the  edge  of  the  compound  he  dropped 
down  and  wriggled  between  two  clusters  of  spiked 
sisal  leaves.  She  bent  down  and  did  the  same.  In 
a  little  while  they  were  threading  their  way  between 
the  twisted  thorns  of  the  bush.  A  branch,  back- 
springing,  tore  Eva's  cheek.  They  must  have  moved 
more  quickly  than  she  had  imagined,  for  her  heart 
was  fluttering  violently,  but  M'Crae  never  hesitated, 
and  still  she  followed  after. 

She  wondered  often  how  in  the  world  he  knew 
which  way  he  was  taking  her,  for  all  the  trees  in  this 
wilderness  seemed  to  her  alike,  and  she  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  stars.  Somewhere  on  the  right  of  them 
she  heard  shots,  and  when  the  firing  started  he  stopped 
to  listen.  A  ridiculous  thing,  that  any  man  who  was 
running  for  his  life  should  waste  time  in  that  way. 
The  first  shots  sounded  a  long  way  from  them,  in 


248  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  direction  which  he  had  taken  when  he  first  left  her ; 
but  while  they  stood  listening  a  group  of  four  fol- 
lowed, and  these  were  of  a  terrifying  loudness,  beat- 
ing on  their  ears  as  if,  indeed,  the  rifles  were  levelled 
at  their  heads.  Eva  had  often  heard  the  echoes  of 
Godovius's  rifle  in  the  bush ;  but  it  was  quite  a  differ- 
ent thing  to  feel  that  she  was  being  fired  at.  She 
shivered  and  touched  M'Crae's  arm. 

"Where  are  they?"  she  whispered.  "Can  you  see 
them?" 

"No.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  be  frightened,"  he  said. 
"The  bush  magnifies  the  sound.  They  are  quite  a 
long  way  away." 

But  with  the  next  shot  something  droned  with  the 
flight  of  a  beetle  above  them,  and  a  severed  twig 
dropped  on  Eva's  hair. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  M'Crae;  "they're  firing  on 
chance,  and  they're  firing  high.  They  always  fire 
high.  Are  you  rested  now?  Come  along." 

Strangely  enough,  she  found  herself  no  longer  tired. 
Her  heart  ceased  its  feeble  flutterings.  She  had 
reached  her  "second  wind."  Now  they  moved  faster 
than  ever.  Even  though  the  bush  never  thinned, 
M'Crae  seemed  able  to  find  a  twisting  way  between 
the  thorns;  almost  as  if  he  had  planned  the  route  ex- 
actly, yard  for  yard,  and  were  following  it  exactly, 
never  changing  pace  nor  breaking  stride. 

Suddenly,  in  front  of  them,  the  bush  grew  thinner, 
and  Eva  was  thankful,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  now 
they  were  no  longer  shut  in  a  cage  of  thorns.  A 
moment  later  they  emerged  upon  the  edge  of  a  wide 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  249 

slade  of  grasses,  very  beautiful  and  silvery  in  the 
moon.  For  a  full  mile  or  more  it  stretched  before 
them,  unmoved  by  any  breath  of  wind,  and  the  night 
so  softened  the  contours  of  the  black  bush  which  lay 
about  it  that  a  strange  magic  might  have  transported 
them  without  warning  to  some  homely  English 
meadow,  set  about  with  hedges  of  hawthorn  and 
dreaming  beneath  the  moon.  No  scene  could  have 
been  further  removed  from  her  idea  of  Africa  and 
its  violence. 

"We  must  keep  to  the  thorn,"  whispered  M'Crae. 

She  obeyed.  But  here,  on  the  edge  of  the  bush, 
where  the  lower  branches  of  the  thorn-trees  had 
pushed  out  into  sunlight  and  more  luxuriantly  thriven, 
it  was  not  easy  going.  They  moved  slowly,  and  in 
a  little  while  Eva's  dress  was  torn  in  many  places. 
Thorns  from  the  low  branches  tore  at  her  back  and 
remained  embedded  in  her  flesh.  She  was  very  mis- 
erable, but  never,  never  tired.  In  the  bush  on  their 
left  they  heard  a  melancholy,  drooping  note.  It  was 
the  cry  of  a  bird  with  which  Eva  had  grown  very 
familiar  at  Luguru,  and  she  scarcely  noticed  it  until 
M'Crae  stopped  dead. 

"It  was  a  hornbill,"  she  said. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But  a  hornbill  never  calls  at  night." 

While  he  spoke  the  call  was  echoed  from  the  woody 
edge  beyond  their  slade  of  grasses.  Again  on  their 
left:  and  this  time  very  near. 

"An  escort,"  said  M'Crae.  "We  must  get  closer 
in." 

"Towards  the  sound?" 


250  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Come  along." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  denser  thicket  of  thorn. 
"We  can  never  force  our  way  through  this,"  she 
thought.  Upright  they  could  not  have  penetrated  this 
spinous  screen.  Crouching  low,  they  managed  to  pass 
beneath  its  lower  branches  where  they  drooped  to  the 
level  of  many  fleshy  spears  of  the  wild  sisal.  At 
last  Eva  found  that  they  had  reached  a  little  clear 
space  about  the  root  of  a  gigantic  acacia. 

"Now  lie  down,"  said  M'Crae.  She  lay  down  in 
the  dark  and  the  shed  spines  of  other  years  drove  into 
her  limbs  till  she  could  have  cried.  In  this  secret  lair 
they  waited  silently  for  a  long  while.  They  heard 
no  longer  the  mocking  hornbill  call,  nor  any  sound 
at  all  until  their  silence  was  suddenly  shattered  by  a 
burst  of  firing  over  the  grass-land  on  their  right. 
"They  think  that  they  have  seen  something,"  said 
M'Crae.  "Don't  be  frightened.  You  are  quite  safe 
here.  Quite  safe." 

And  so  this  firing  ceased,  or  rather  bore  away  to 
the  south-east  across  the  line  which  they  were  follow- 
ing, and  then  again  to  the  full  south,  in  distant  bush, 
where  it  muttered  and  died  away.  All  this  time  Eva 
was  lying  with  her  arms  between  the  thorny  ground 
and  her  head,  gazing  up  at  the  flat,  horizontal  tapes- 
tries of  the  acacia  and  beyond  to  a  clear  sky  in  which 
the  moon  sailed  lightly  as  though  it  were  rejoicing 
in  the  freedom  of  the  heaven  from  any  wisp  of  cloud 
to  mar  its  brightness;  for  all  the  cloudy  content  of 
the  sky  lay  piled  upon  the  hills  beyond  which  she  had 
risen,  in  monstrous  gleaming  billows  that  dwarfed  the 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  251 

dark  hill-chains,  but  stood  up  so  far  away  that  Eva 
had  no  notion  of  their  presence.  A  little  wind  passed 
in  the  night,  and  she  grew  aware  of  many  dead  or 
dry  leaves  shivering  all  around. 

"Come  along,"  said  M'Crae,  helping  her  gently  to 
her  feet.  She  was  horribly  stiff,  but  still  not  in  the 
least  tired. 

Now  it  was  not  easy  to  escape  from  their  hiding- 
place,  so  thick-set  were  the  trees  and  so  tangled  about 
their  roots  with  an  undergrowth  as  wiry  in  the  stem 
as  heather  but  fledged  with  softer  leaves.  Eva's 
hands  clutched  at  these  as  they  passed,  and  she  be- 
came aware  of  a  pungent  and  aromatic  odour. 

"Don't  do  that,  please,"  said  M'Crae.  "On  a  wind- 
less night  that  will  smell  for  hours." 

She  felt  like  a  naughty  child  at  this  reproof.  She 
found  herself  rubbing  her  hands  on  her  skirt,  almost 
expected  to  be  scolded  again  for  ruining  her  clothes. 
That  skirt,  at  any  rate,  was  past  ruination.  She  felt 
inclined  to  laugh  at  her  own  feeling  of  guilt  as  much 
as  at  his  seriousness;  for  she  couldn't  get  over  the 
idea  that  even  if  they  were  going  to  die  it  would  be 
just  as  well  to  make  a  little  joke  about  it.  M'Crae's 
intense  monosyllables  worried  her  and,  thinking  of 
this,  she  came  to  see  that  in  reality  it  was  the  man, 
and  not  she,  who  was  childish.  "If  I  laugh,"  she 
thought,  "he  will  think  I  am  mad.  But  if  I  don't 
laugh  soon  I  shall  simply  have  to  cry  or  something." 
She  learnt  a  great  deal  about  M'Crae  in  those  early 
hours  of  their  flight,  realising  that  he  was  as  blind  to 
the  essential  humour  of  nearly  every  catastrophe  as 


252  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

all  the  other  men  she  had  met  would  have  been: 
as  James,  as  her  father,  the  minister  at  Far  Forest 
who  drove  out  on  Sundays  from  Bewdley;  as  every 
one  of  them,  in  fact,  but  the  second  mate  who  had 
tried  to  make  love  to  her  on  the  mail-boat.  "And  he 
wasn't  really  a  nice  man,"  she  thought. 

In  a  little  while  they  had  pushed  their  way  through 
several  miles  of  this  kind  of  bush.  For  a  long  time 
now  they  had  heard  no  noise  of  firing,  nor  indeed  any 
other  sound;  but  at  length  there  came  to  their  ears  a 
shrill,  trilling  note  of  a  curiously  liquid  quality,  and 
Eva  knew  that  they  must  be  approaching  water  of 
some  kind,  for  she  had  often  heard  the  same  music  on 
the  edge  of  the  swamp  or  near  their  own  mission  after 
rain.  M'Crae  was  still  walking  a  little  in  front  of  her 
— never  during  all  this  chase  had  she  seen  his  face — 
and  suddenly  she  saw  his  shoulders  dip  as  he  disap- 
peared over  a  grassy  edge  into  a  deep  channel  sunk 
in  the  ground.  She  followed  him  cautiously,  for  she 
did  not  know  how  steep  the  bank  might  be  or  what 
depth  of  water  might  be  lying  at  the  bottom.  Her 
feet  landed  on  a  bank  of  soft  sand. 

"No  luck,"  said  M'Crae.  In  the  dry  watercourse 
no  drop  of  moisture  remained.  "But  I  think  we  are 
near  water  for  all  that,"  he  said. 

She  could  not  think  why  he  should  be  worrying 
his  mind  about  water  when  the  bottles  which  they  car- 
ried were  full.  Already  she  was  uncomfortably  con- 
scious of  the  weight  of  her  own.  They  crossed  a  sec- 
ond narrow  donga,  and  then  another :  both  dry.  At  3 
third,  sheltered  by  a  graceful  screen  of  taller  acacias, 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  253 

they  found  a  bottom  on  which  there  was  room  for  both 
of  them  to  turn.  The  whistling  of  the  frogs  grew 
so  shrill  that  it  hurt  their  ears.  In  the  middle  of  the 
donga  no  stream  flowed;  but  caught  in  a  series  of 
shelving  rock-pools  a  little  of  the  water  of  the  last 
rains  had  lodged.  It  smelt  stale  and  was  cloudy  with 
the  larvae  of  mosquitoes. 

"Now  we  had  better  drink/'  he  said. 

"This?" 

"Yes.    It  is  not  bad  water." 

"But  I'm  not  thirsty.    And  even  if  I  were  .  .  .** 

"You  must  drink  it  all  the  same.  We  must  keep 
the  water  in  our  bottles.  We  shall  want  that  later. 
Drink  as  much  as  you  can  .  .  ." 

He  himself  began  to  drink,  ladling  the  stuff  to  his 
mouth  with  the  curved  palm  of  his  hand.  She  had 
never  seen  anyone  drink  like  that,  and  when  she  tried 
to  imitate  him  she  found  that  she  spilt  more  than 
she  drank.  Nevertheless  she  managed  to  obey  him, 
and  now  knew,  for  the  first  time,  how  parched  her 
mouth  was. 

"Now  we  must  get  away  from  this,"  he  said.  "This 
place  must  be  alive  with  mosquitoes." 

Her  wrists  and  ankles  knew  that  already;  but  the 
tangle  of  swamps  into  which  they  had  wandered  was 
not  so  easily  left.  It  must  have  taken  them  an  hour 
or  more  to  free  themselves  from  its  convolutions. 
When  they  merged  at  last  into  the  open  air  and 
could  see  the  moonlit  sky,  they  settled  down  in  the 
hollow  of  a  dry  river  bed  upon  the  edge  of  which  the 
grass  grew  high  and  rank.  The  bank  of  this  stream 


254  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

was  strewn  with  fine  sand  and  made  a  comfortable 
shelf  on  which  to  lie. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  tired,"  he  said.  "You  must  be 
tired  to  death." 

She  denied  him;  and  indeed,  strangely  enough,  un- 
til that  moment  she  had  not  been  conscious  of  fa- 
tigue. She  even  felt  a  mild  exhilaration:  a  feeling 
that  it  wasn't  easy  to  describe:  and  then,  of  a  sud- 
den, very,  very  sleepy. 

"You  are  wonderful  .  .  .  wonderful  .  .  ."  he  said. 

He  told  her  that  if  she  were  to  be  fit  to  march  next 
day  it  was  essential  that  she  should  get  some  sleep. 
"We  are  all  alone,"  he  said,  "and  you  must  realise 
that  we  can't  be  ...  be  quite  the  same  as  if  we  were 
living  in  a  civilised  place.  You  mustn't  mind  what 
I  do  for  you.  If  you  trust  me  ...  if  you  realise  that 
I  reverence  you  .  .  .  that  .  .  ." 

"You  should  know  that  without  asking  me,"  she 
said. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  cold  night,"  he  said.  "You're 
warm  now.  But  it's  nearly  two  o'clock  and  the  cold 
of  the  ground  will  strike  through  your  clothes.  I 
want  you  to  share  my  warmth.  If  you  aren't  warm 
you  won't  sleep.  And  it's  important  you  should  sleep. 
You  mustn't  take  any  notice  of  it.  You  mustn't  mind." 

She  made  no  reply.  It  seemed  very  strange  to  her, 
even  though  she  told  herself  that  there  was  no  real 
reason  why  it  should  seem  strange.  And  so  they  set- 
tled down  for  the  night,  lying  very  close  together, 
with  M'Crae's  body  pressed  to  hers ;  and  when,  a  little 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

later,  she  began  to  shiver,  as  he  had  told  her,  and 
found  that  she  had  huddled  instinctively  closer  to  his 
warmth,  she  felt  him  respond  to  her  presence,  placing 
his  arm  about  her  for  protection.  Even  in  her  state 
between  sleep  and  waking  she  felt  her  sense  of  mod- 
esty weakly  rebel  against  the  idea  that  she  should  be 
lying  under  the  moon  with  the  arm  of  a  stranger  about 
her.  But  when  she  reflected  on  the  matter  it  seemed  to 
her  that  in  fact  she  knew  M'Crae  more  intimately  than 
any  other  man  in  the  world,  and  smiling  to  herself  at 
the  strangeness  of  the  whole  business,  she  fell  asleep 
again. 

M'Crae  did  not  sleep.  .  .  .  He  fcad  many  matters 
for  thinking,  and  even  though  they  had  made  good 
travelling  from  Luguru,  having  left  the  mission  twelve 
or  fourteen  miles  behind,  he  felt  that  it  was  still  his 
duty  to  watch.  At  this  distance  from  Luguru  it  was 
more  than  probable  that  their  pursuers  would  leave 
them  alone,  and  particularly  in  the  night  season,  which 
the  Waluguru  fear;  but  even  if  he  were  free  from  the 
menace  of  the  armed  savages,  no  sleeping  man  could  be 
wholly  safe  from  lions  in  a  country  so  full  of  game. 
He  wanted,  too,  in  his  own  methodical  way,  to  make 
his  plans  for  the  next  day's  journey,  to  calculate  how 
far  their  resources  of  food  and  water  would  carry  them, 
to  set  his  course  by  that  pale  starlight  for  the  journey 
towards  the  Central  Railway  with  its  relative  civilisa- 
tion. 

He  calculated  that  from  the  nullah  in  which  they 
now  lay  to  their  object  must  be  close  on  eighty  miles. 
Of  the  lie  of  the  land  he  knew  next  to  nothing,  for 


256  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

he  had  entered  the  German  province  from  the  north; 
but  he  knew  enough  of  the  general  nature  of  Africa 
to  guess  that  the  country  would  lie  higher  towards  the 
east,  and  that  the  rivers,  draining  to  the  Wami,  as 
did  the  M'ssente,  would  be  spread  out  like  the  fingers 
of  a  hand  from  the  north  to  the  south-west,  and 
farther  south  in  the  line  of  the  Equator.  It  seemed 
to  him,  therefore,  that  they  could  hardly  ever  be  wholly 
lacking  in  water.  But  he  didn't  know.  There  was 
no  way  in  which  he  could  know.  He  reckoned  that  if 
he  were  travelling  alone  he  could  make  almost  certain 
of  doing  his  twenty  miles  a  day ;  but  this  time  he  was 
not  travelling  alone,  and  he  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
strength  or  endurance  of  a  woman,  or  how  her  deli- 
cate feet  would  stand  the  strain  of  walking  day  after 
day.  That  night  he  had  made  her  loosen  her  shoes. 
He  could  see  them  now,  ridiculously  slender  things, 
lying  beside  her.  It  was  not  the  fact  that  they  were 
unpractical  which  impressed  him  so  much  as  that  they 
were  small.  Seeing  this  token  of  Eva's  fragility,  he 
was  overwhelmed  with  a  kind  of  pity  for  her  littleness. 
He  supposed  that  for  all  her  high  and  splendid  spirit 
she  was  really  no  more  than  a  child ;  and  feeling  thus 
incalculably  tender  toward  her,  he  found  that,  in  the 
most  unconscious  way  in  the  world,  the  arm  which  he 
had  placed  about  her  to  keep  her  warm  when  she  had 
shivered  would  have  tightened  in  a  caress. 

That  wouldn't  do.  He  knew  it  wouldn't  do.  He 
knew  that  it  would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  to 
have  bent  a  little  nearer  and  kissed  her  cool,  pale 
cheek:  so  easy,  and  so  natural  for  a  man  who  loved 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  257 

her.  But  he  had  settled  it  long  ago  in  his  mind  that 
for  a  man  of  his  kind  to  permit  himself  the  least  in- 
dulgence of  tenderness  would  not  be  strictly  fair  to  her. 
He  knew  that  if  he  were  once  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  love-making  between  them  there  must  be  an  end 
once  for  all  of  his  attempts  to  do  what  he  had  con- 
ceived to  be  his  duty.  It  would  not  be  fair :  and  there 
was  an  end  of  it.  It  wouldn't  be  fair.  .  .  . 

And  so,  lying  alone  with  this  woman  so  intensely 
loved,  in  his  embrace,  he  resigned  himself  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  vast  sky  which  stretched  above 
them.  God  knows,  it  wasn't  easy.  All  the  time  there 
was  a  danger — and  no  one  could  have  appreciated  it 
better  than  he  did — of  his  allowing  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded that  she  was  really  a  child  and  that  he  was 
justified  in  his  sense  of  protection :  so  that  it  was  not 
surprising  that  he  found  himself  turning  for  an  es- 
cape towards  the  infinite  remoteness  of  stellar  space. 
It  was  an  old  trick  of  his.  Time  after  time,  in  the 
past,  he  had  used  this  expedient  in  hours  of  distress 
and  disappointment.  He  knew  nothing  of  astronomy, 
and  yet  he  had  lived  under  the  stars.  He  saw  now  the 
great  cloudy  nebulae  of  the  southern  sky,  and  that 
principal  glory  of  the  south,  Orion,  mightily  dominat- 
ing the  whole  vault.  He  had  always  cherished  an 
idea  these  remote,  compassionate  spheres  looked  down 
with  pity  on  the  small  troubles  of  the  human  race  and 
the  little,  spinning  world.  What,  after  all,  did  it 
matter  whether  one  man  were  lord  of  his  desires  or 
no?  In  heaven,  he  remembered,  there  was  no  marry- 
ing or  giving  in  marriage.  It  were  better  so.  While 


258  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

he  watched,  the  great  sky  gradually  clouded  over.  No 
driving  clouds  were  hurried  past  the  moon :  only  an 
immense  curtain  of  white  vapour  condensed  in  the  up- 
per sky,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  moon  was  hidden. 
It  grew  almost  dark. 

Next  morning  Eva  wakened  to  a  sound  that  was  pe- 
culiar in  its  blending  of  the  strange  and  the  familiar. 
The  sky  hung  grey  above  them,  but  the  air  was  full 
of  innumerable  bird-song,  so  clear  and  thrilling  in 
its  slenderness  that  she  could  almost  have  imagined 
that  she  was  waking  to  a  morning  in  the  first  ecstasy 
of  spring  in  her  own  home  on  the  edge  of  the  Forest  of 
Wyre.  She  had  never  heard  anything  like  that  at 
Luguru.  In  the  garden  at  the  mission  she  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  harsh  note  of  the  pied  shrikes,  a 
numerous  and  truculent  tribe  which  makes  its  living 
on  the  smaller  birds.  This  first  and  ravishing  im- 
pression was  a  small  thing:  but  somehow  it  coloured 
all  that  day.  A  wonderful  day.  The  sun  rose  swiftly 
on  those  highlands,  and  in  a  little  while  her  limbs  lost 
their  chill  and  stiffness.  As  soon  as  she  had  rubbed 
her  eyes  and  put  on  her  shoes  they  ate  a  little  break- 
fast together.  M'Crae  allowed  her  a  little  water  .  .  . 
so  very  little,  she  thought,  and  then  they  set  off  walk- 
ing in  the  cool  morning. 

No  man  who  has  not  travelled  in  the  early  morn- 
ing of  the  African  highlands  could  tell  you  of  the 
beauty  of  that  day.  Their  way  led  them  over  a  wide 
country  of  waving  grasses  where  trees  were  few :  a 
high  plateau,  so  washed  with  golden  light,  so  bathed 
in  golden  air,  so  kindly  and  so  free  that  it  would 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  259 

have  been  difficult  for  any  soul  to  have  felt  unhappy 
there.  To  the  west  and  to  the  south  of  them  stretched 
these  endless  yellow  plains.  In  the  north  they  could 
still  see  the  bosky  forms  of  the  Luguru  hills,  where  all 
their  troubles  lay:  but  even  these  seemed  now  too 
beautiful  to  have  sheltered  any  violence  or  pain.  Once 
or  twice  in  the  midst  of  this  atmosphere  of  freedom 
and  of  relief  from  the  intangible  threats  of  Luguru 
Eva  remembered  James.  She  recognised,  I  suppose, 
that  he  was  in  some  danger :  she  was  grieved,  no  doubt, 
by  the  obstinacy  which  had  made  him  stay  behind, 
and  realised  that  it  was  very  courageous  of  him  and 
very  like  him  to  have  seen  the  business  through :  but 
her  own  relief  and  bewilderment  were  so  intense  that 
she  was  never  vexed  with  the  dreadful  imaginations 
which  came  to  the  mind  of  M'Crae,  and  made  him  re- 
mote and  preoccupied  all  through  that  golden  morn- 
ing. 

Little  by  little  his  sombre  mood  was  beguiled  by  her 
childish  pleasure  in  .new  things,  her  young  and  healthy 
life.  I  suppose  that  a  man  can  know  no  greater  hap- 
piness than  walking  alone  in  the  open  air  at  the  side 
of  the  woman  he  loves.  In  these  hours  the  whole 
living  world  ministers  to  his  passion,  revealing  count- 
less and  incredible  beauties  to  eyes  that  are  already 
drunk  with  joy.  So  it  was  with  M'Crae.  In  the  love- 
liness of  Eva's  gait,  of  her  eyes,  of  her  voice,  he  was 
lost.  The  way  was  scattered  with  familiar  beauties 
which  came  to  him  invested  with  a  strange  poignancy 
when  they  were  shared  by  Eva's  eyes.  Thus,  in  the 
heat  of  the  day,  they  rested  beneath  a  solitary  acacia 


260  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

on  the  gravelly  crown  of  these  plains  and  round  the 
dusty  flowers  of  brushwood  at  their  feet  many  but- 
terflies hovered.  M'Crae  knew  them  all  well  enough, 
but  Eva  had  never  seen  many  of  them  before  and  must 
find  a  likeness  for  each  of  their  silken  patterns.  One 
that  she  loved  was  blotched  with  peacock  eyes  of 
violet,  and  another  wore  wings  of  figured  satin  in 
modest  browns  and  greys,  like  the  sober  gowns  of 
mid-Victorian  ladies :  and  at  the  sight  of  another  Eva 
must  hold  her  breath,  for  it  floated  down  on  great 
curved  wings  of  black  that  were  barred  with  the  blue 
of  a  kingfisher. 

All  through  the  heat  of  the  day  they  lay  there  listen- 
ing to  the  sleepy  calling  of  the  hornbills  until  they  fell 
asleep  themselves.  In  the  first  cool  of  the  evening 
they  set  out  again,  leaving  the  country  of  tall  grasses 
as  golden  as  ever  behind  them,  and  entering  a  zone  of 
Park  Steppe  scattered  with  trees  from  which  the  nests 
of  the  bottle-bird  were  hanging  in  hundreds.  Eva 
was  beginning  to  be  very  thirsty:  but  M'Crae  would 
not  let  her  drink.  Soon,  he  imagined,  they  must  come 
to  one  of  the  greater  tributaries  of  the  Wami :  there 
they  would  quench  their  thirst  and  camp  for  the  night 
upon  the  farther  side.  At  the  time  of  sunset  they 
came  indeed  to  a  sodden  valley  upon  which  the  Park 
Steppe  looked  down.  It  promised  good  and  plenteous 
water,  for  the  bottom  was  hidden  with  tapestries  of 
acacia  slowly  stirring,  and  a  single  group  of  taller  trees 
with  silvery  trunks  and  great,  expanded  crowns  stood 
brooding  over  the  sources  of  some  spring.  On  a  slope 
of  sand  M'Crae  noticed  the  spoor  of  many  buck  that 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  261 

had  wandered  to  this  oasis  for  water,  and  when 
he  saw  them  his  mind  was  clouded  with  a  faint  doubt : 
for  the  hoof-prints  had  set  hard  in  moist  sand  and 
had  been  left  there,  for  all  he  knew,  as  long  ago  as 
the  last  rains.  When  they  came  to  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  they  found  that  the  bed  of  the  stream  was  dry. 
M'Crae  searched  along  its  course  to  see  if  any  water 
had  been  caught  in  the  pools  of  rock:  but  whatever 
had  lain  there  had  long  since  evaporated.  Some- 
where indeed  there  must  be  water.  So  much  they 
knew  by  the  high  crowns  of  that  company  of  smooth- 
trunked  trees  and  by  the  luxuriance  of  the  thorned 
acacia.  But  the  water  was  too  deep  for  them.  M'Crae 
spent  a  futile  hour  digging  with  his  hand  in  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  stream :  but  though  the  sand  grew  cool, 
no  water  trickled  through. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Eva.  "We  have  plenty  of 
water  left." 

M'Crae  shook  his  head. 

That  night  they  made  their  camp  on  a  hill-side 
placed  a  mile  or  so,  above  the  bed  of  the  river,  at 
a  safe  distance  from  those  sinister  beauties  which  are 
known  to  hunters  as  "fever  trees."  Eva  was  very 
happy,  even  though  the  spear-grass  had  worked  its 
way  into  her  feet.  She  was  healthily  and  pleasantly 
fatigued.  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  spent  a  more 
wonderful  day.  She  felt,  too,  that  she  was  beginning 
to  know  M'Crae  better  and  was  glad  of  it.  Time  had 
helped  her  to  reason  herself  out  of  a  great  deal  of 
ridiculous  shyness.  Again  they  lay  together  under  the 
stars,  talking  of  trivial  and  intimate  things.  They  did 


262  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

not  speak  of  James  or  of  Godovius.  Their  talk  was 
as  light  and  an  inconsequent  as  that  of  two  happy 
lovers.  Indeed  they  were  already  lovers,  though 
neither  of  them  had  ever  given  the  other  a  word  of 
love. 

Eva  fell  asleep  early,  resigning  herself  without  ques- 
tion to  the  arm  of  M'Crae:  but  M'Crae  lay  awake 
long  into  the  night.  He  was  thinking  of  water  .  .  . 
always  of  water.  Their  disappointment  at  the  river 
bed  had  made  him  very  anxious.  He  had  made  cer- 
tain of  finding  permanent  water  at  this  level,  and  the 
bed  of  the  stream  was  sufficiently  deep  and  wide  to 
justify  his  belief.  But  now  there  was  no  doubt  in  his 
mind  but  that  he  had  set  their  course  too  far  west- 
ward for  the  season  of  the  year.  He  had  been  aiming, 
as  Godovius  had  told  him,  for  M'papwa;  but  if  he 
were  to  keep  in  touch  with  water  it  seemed  that  he 
must  make  for  the  line  considerably  farther  east.  The 
prospect  which  lay  before  him,  according  to  his  pres- 
ent plans,  was  a  whole  system  of  dry  river  beds  which 
would  mock  their  thirst  at  every  valley  and  in  the 
midst  of  which  they  must  surely  perish.  It  meant  a 
whole  revision  of  his  plans,  and,  what  was  more,  a 
waste  of  valuable  time.  For,  even  though  he  had  un- 
dertaken to  place  Eva  in  safety  on  the  Central  Rail- 
way, the  mind  of  M'Crae  was  never  very  remote  from 
Luguru.  He  had  given  Godovius  his  word  that  he 
would  return.  In  some  small  particular  Godovius  had 
shown  himself  to  be  a  white  man :  at  the  last  moment 
his  regard  for  Eva  had  been  sufficiently  strong  to  place 
her  in  the  protection  of  his  only  rival.  M'Crae  had 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  263 

gravely  given  him  credit  for  that:  and  if  he  owed  a 
debt  of  honour  to  Godovius,  he  felt  himself  even  more 
deeply  indebted  to  James,  a  man  of  his  own  race, 
cursed  with  the  courage  and  perversity  of  a  martyr, 
and  the  only  brother  of  the  woman  he  loved.  Yes,  as 
soon  as  it  were  possible  he  must  make  his  way  back  to 
Luguru  .  .  .  even  if  he  were  to  be  too  late.  There 
was  so  little  time  to  spare.  Once  more,  about  mid- 
night, the  sky  clouded  over.  On  the  horizon's  brim 
he  watched  the  flickering  light  of  oush  fires  slowly 
burning  fifty  miles  away. 


IV 

A  cloudless  and  splendid  dawn  ushered  in  the  first 
of  the  bad  days.  They  set  off  early :  for  M'Crae  was 
anxious  to  make  as  much  progress  as  possible  before 
the  extreme  heat  of  the  sun  developed.  He  had  de- 
cided, in  his  deliberations  of  the  night,  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  dry  river  valley  towards  the  east,  so  that, 
at  the  worst,  they  might  keep  in  touch  with  the  pos- 
sibility of  water.  They  marched  all  day.  From  time 
to  time  M'Crae  would  leave  Eva  to  rest  while  he 
reached  out  towards  the  valley  of  the  river  to  see  if  any 
sign  of  water  were  there.  Time  after  time  he  returned 
with  a  solemn  face  which  told  her  that  he  had  failed, 
and  every  time  she  was  ready  to  meet  him  with  a  smile. 
It  wasn't  easy  to  smile,  for  though  she  dared  not  let 
him  know,  she  was  suffering  a  great  deal.  The  little 
doles  of  water  which  he  allowed  her  to  take  were  never 
enough  to  quench  her  thirst.  Always,  in  the  back  of 


264  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

her  mind,  whatever  she  might  be  saying  or  doing, 
thirst  was  the  dominant  idea.  In  all  her  life  she  had 
never  been  far  away  from  the  sweet  moisture  of 
brookland  air :  but  the  country  through  which  they  now 
struggled  might  never  have  known  any  moisture  but 
that  of  the  dew  for  all  they  could  see  of  it.  It  was 
an  endless,  arid  plain,  so  vast  and  so  terribly  homo- 
geneous that  their  progress  began  to  seem  like  a  sort 
of  nightmare  in  which  they  were  compelled  to  trudge 
for  ever  without  more  achievement  than  prisoners 
treading  a  wheel.  Always  the  same  level  skylines 
hemmed  them  in,  offering,  as  one  might  think,  an  in- 
finite possibility  of  escape,  but  giving  none.  The  dry 
bed  of  the  river  was  the  same,  neither  wider  nor  nar- 
rower, and  always  parched  with  sun.  The  trees  were 
the  same  scattered  bushes  of  mimosa  and  acacia :  the 
butterflies  the  same;  the  same  hornbills  called  to  them 
from  melancholy  distances.  Once,  in  the  appalling 
fatigue  of  the  early  evening,  when  a  little  coolness  de- 
scended to  mock  their  labours,  Eva  realised  of  a  sud- 
den that  she  was  sitting  under  a  withered  candelabra 
cactus,  a  gloomy  skeleton  that  raised  withered  arms 
into  the  dry  air,  and  a  haunting  conviction  assailed 
her  that  this  was  the  self -same  tree  under  which  she 
had  sat  in  their  first  halt,  long  ago  in  the  dawn  of  the 
same  day.  The  idea  was  almost  too  horrible  to  be 
true;  and,  when  she  saw  M'Crae  approaching,  the  same 
lean,  dusty  figure,  his  lips  parched  with  drought,  the 
atmosphere  of  a  monstrous  dream  returned  to  her. 
Again  he  smiled,  again  he  helped  her  to  her  feet.  He 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  26? 

was  so  kind,  she  thought,  that  she  could  have  cried 
for  that  alone. 

At  sunset  they  lay  down  for  the  night.  They  spoke 
very  little.  They  were  too  tired  to  speak,  and  the  mind 
of  M'Crae  too  troubled;  for  he  knew  that  even  if  they 
found  water  next  day  their  food  was  running  short. 
For  supper  they  chewed  plugs  of  biltong.  That  night 
she  slept  very  little.  When  she  was  not  awake  she 
dreamed  without  ceasing.  She  dreamed  of  Far  Forest, 
and  above  all  of  a  little  brook  which  tumbles  from  the 
western  margin  of  the  watershed  of  Clow's  Top  to 
the  valley  of  the  Teme,  and  a  mossy  pool  of  icy,  clear 
water  into  which  the  thin  stream  fell  with  a  tinkling 
sound.  When  she  was  a  child,  returning  on  hot  au- 
tumn days  from  the  wooded  valley,  she  had  often 
bathed  her  flushed  face  in  its  basin,  and  let  the  water 
trickle  into  her  mouth,  and  so,  she  dreamed,  she  was 
doing  now.  Then  she  awoke  to  the  brilliant  moonlit 
sky  untenanted  by  any  cloud  or  any  dewy  tenderness. 
In  the  cold,  dry  air  she  huddled  closer  to  M'Crae.  It 
was  good,  after  all,  not  to  be  quite  alone.  She  decided 
that  she  would  chew  no  more  biltong.  She  would 
rather  starve  than  have  that  savour  in  her  dry  mouth. 
It  tasted  to  her  like  the  dregs  of  beef-tea. 

A  little  before  dawn  he  awakened  her.  Now  he  had 
determined  to  take  the  greater  risk  and  march  due 
south.  Even  without  water — and  the  land  could  not 
be  waterless  for  ever — it  would  be  possible  for  them 
to  cover  as  much  as  fifty  miles,  and  he  did  not  suppose 
that  they  could  now  be  farther  than  this  from  the 
railway. 


266  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

It  was  a  bitter  start.  She  found  that  her  feet  had 
become  so  sore  that  it  was  torture  only  to  stand;  but 
she  supposed  that  when  once  she  had  got  going  it  would 
be  easier.  He  knew  that  she  must  be  suffering  thirst, 
for  he  himself  had  taken  far  less  water  than  she. 

"You  poor  child,"  he  said.  "You  poor,  dear  child. 
It  can't  be  so  very  long  now.  .  .  ." 

She  knew  it  could  not  be  so  very  long. 

But  that  day  was  a  repetition  of  the  last:  more 
terrible,  perhaps,  in  its  alternations  of  hope  and 
despair;  for  now  their  way  led  them  over  a  series 
of  river  valleys,  every  one  of  them  full  of  promise, 
every  one  of  them  dry.  She  began  to  hate  the  temp- 
tations of  their  beckoning  green.  All  the  time  he 
was  at  her  side  ready  to  cheer  her,  and  always  eager 
to  give  her  rest. 

"You  are  brave,"  he  said,  "you  are  splendid.  You 
are  wonderful.  A  little  longer.  Only  a  little 
longer.  .  .  ." 

Towards  evening  she  knew  that  she  could  do  no 
more.  After  a  longer  halt  than  usual  she  made  her 
confession. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't.  .  .  .  No  ...  I  know  I  can't. 
My  feet  are  dreadful.  It's  worse  than  being  thirsty. 
You  mustn't  take  any  notice  of  me.  You  had  better 
go  on.  You  musn't  mind  leaving  me.  I  want  you  to 
do  so." 

"We  must  see  what  we  can  do,"  he  said,  "and  you 
mustn't  talk  such  wicked  nonsense.  You  know  that  I 
can't  leave  you.  Let's  see  what  we  can  do  to  your 
feet." 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  267 

She  took  off  her  stockings.  She  didn't  want  to 
do  so.  It  was  funny  that  in  this  extremity  she  should 
have  been  troubled  by  any  such  instinctive  modesty. 
"I  expect  they  look  awful,"  she  said. 

Her  stockings  had  stuck  to  her  feet,  her  poor,  swol- 
len feet,  with  blisters,  she  supposed;  but  when,  with 
infinite  pain,  she  had  managed  to  free  them,  she  found 
that  the  skin  was  smothered  with  ghastly  suppurat- 
ing wounds  in  each  of  the  many  places  where  the  fine 
spines  of  spear-grass  had  pierced  it.  Indeed  it  was  a 
miracle  of  endurance  that  she  should  have  held  on 
through  the  day.  The  realisation  of  her  suffering  was 
altogether  too  much  for  M'Crae.  He  caressed  the 
bruised  feet  with  his  trembling  hand. 

"What  you  must  have  suffered  .  .  .  my  dear  one, 
my  dear  one  .  .  .  your  beautiful  feet.  You,  a 
woman.  You  of  all  women  in  the  world." 

Kneeling  beside  her  in  the  sand,  he  kissed  her  dusty 
ankles. 

"I  have  been  cruel  to  you.  I  have  driven  you.  And 
just  because  you  were  so  brave.  .  .  ." 

"It  hasn't  been  more  for  me  than  for  you,"  she  said. 
"And  don't  call  me  brave.  I'm  not  brave.  I'm  only 
what  you  make  me.  If  you  call  me  brave  I  know  I 
shall  cry  .  .  .  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that."  She 
raised  his  head  and  kissed  his  blackened  lips.  And 
then  she  found  that  she  must  cry  after  all :  but  while 
she  cried  to  herself  her  hand,  all  of  its  own  accord,  was 
stroking  his  bowed  head. 

The  peace  of  the  sunset  descended  on  the  plains. 
The  air  about  them  was  full  of  a  tenderness  which  is 


268  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  nearest  to  that  of  spring  than  any  that  the  tropics 
know.  A  rainbird  on  a  spray  of  thorn  began  its 
liquid  song ;  but  this  battered  and  exhausted  pair  were 
too  rapt  in  their  own  bewildering  revelation  of  beauty 
to  be  aware  of  any  other.  The  night  fell. 

They  did  not  sleep.  They  lay  together  and  talked 
softly  of  things  which  had  not  the  remotest  bearing 
on  their  desperate  case:  of  the  night  when  they  had 
first  met:  the  long  evenings  in  Mr.  Bullace's  banda 
among  the  whisky  bottles  and  the  rest  of  the  precious 
hours  which  now  they  counted  as  lost.  For  them  the 
past  and  the  amazing  present  were  enough.  They 
had  no  future.  It  did  not  seem  to  matter  what  the 
future  might  be  now  that  they  had  reached  this  most 
glorious  end.  At  the  worst  they  were  sure  of  dying 
together.  To-morrow  .  .  . 

To-morrow  came.  They  watched  the  sky  grow  pale 
over  the  eastern  horizon.  Gradually  the  outlines  of 
the  low  trees  which  had  lain  around  them  in  silent  con- 
gregation became  more  distinct.  The  birds  began  to 
sing.  Perhaps  there  would  not  be  another  dawn. 

While  they  sat  wondering  under  the  paling  sky  a 
strange  sound  came  to  their  ears.  To  Eva  it  sounded 
like  the  rushing  of  a  distant  river.  In  such  a  silence 
the  least  of  sounds  could  be  heard;  but  this  sound 
came  for  a  moment  faintly  and  was  gone.  Indeed  it 
was  more  like  the  sound  of  water  than  anything  else : 
a  mirage  of  sound  that  had  come  like  that  old  dream 
to  torture  her  thirst.  It  faded  away,  and  then,  very 
gently,  it  came  again. 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  26g 

"I  heard  something  .  .  .  like  a  river.  Did  you 
hear  it?"  she  said. 

"I  heard  something,"  said  M'Crae,  "but  I  think  I 
must  have  imagined  it.  It  was  like  the  noise  that  the 
blood  makes  in  the  vessels  near  your  ears  at  night, 
when  you  are  getting  better  from  fever.  I  expect 
it's  partly  the  quinine." 

"But  I  heard  it  too.  ...  It  can't  be  that,"  she 
said. 

"Don't  think  about  it,"  said  M'Crae.  "We  had  bet- 
ter make  a  start.  Now  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  let  me  carry  you.  We  will  see  how  it  works. 
I  shall  take  you  like  they  carry  a  wounded  man.  You 
must  put  your  arms  round  my  neck."  Again  they 
kissed. 

He  had  lifted  her  precious  weight,  when  she  cried: 
"Listen.  ...  I  hear  it  again.  It  can't  be  imagina- 
tion," and  they  listened  together. 

"My  God!"  said  M'Crae.    "My  God!    It's  a  train!" 

He  left  her,  and  she  watched  him  running  into  the 
bush,  as  though  this  were  actually  the  last  train  that 
was  every  going  to  grind  along  the  length  of  the  Cen- 
tral Railway,  and  he  must  stop  it  or  die. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


HOW  many  hours  Eva  lay  alone  under  the  thorn- 
tree  I  do  not  know.  For  a  great  part  of  the 
time  she  slept  or  fell  into  an  uneasy  dream  that  hung 
midway  between  sleep  and  waking.  Now  that  her 
hope  of  water  had  been  renewed  her  thirst  became  a 
torment  even  greater  than  before.  Once  again,  in  the 
middle  of  the  hot  noon,  she  thought  that  she  heard 
a  train  moving  on  the  line ;  but  by  this  time  the  wind 
which  had  brought  the  noise  to  their  ears  had  dropped, 
and  it  sounded  very  far  away.  In  the  intervals  of 
waking,  and  even  in  her  dreams,  her  mind  seemed 
marvellously  clear.  She  found  that  she  wanted  to 
talk  of  the  ideas  which  whirled  about  it.  She  even 
wanted  to  laugh,  although  she  could  not  imagine  why. 
And  then,  in  her  weakness,  she  would  topple  from  this 
pinnacle  of  exaltation,  feeling  her  actual  and  appalling 
loneliness,  thinking  miserably  of  James  and  of  any 
catastrophe  which  might  have  befallen  him.  At  other 
times  she  would  surprise  herself,  or  rather  one  of  the 
innumerable  selves  of  which  her  personality  was  com- 
pact, engrossed  in  the  contemplation  of  some  minute 
part  of  the  multitude  of  silent  life  which  surrounded 
her.  At  one  time,  moving  rapidly  in  the  red  dust  at 
her  feet,  she  saw  an  expedition  of  black  ants,  many 
thousands  of  them,  extended  in  a  winding  caravan. 

270 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  271 

She  saw  the  porters  stumbling  under  their  loads, 
the  shining  bellies  of  their  attendant  askaris,  and  the 
solitary  scouts  which  they  had  thrown  out  on  either 
side.  She  could  not  guess  where  they  had  come  from 
or  where  they  were  going,  but  the  way  which  they  had 
chosen,  and  from  which  no  obstacle  could  dissuade 
them,  happened  to  lie  over  the  ragged  edge  of  her 
skirt.  She  dared  not  move,  for  she  feared  that  if 
she  disturbed  them  they  would  swarm  upon  her  with 
innumerable  stings;  so  she  lay  very  still  and  watched 
their  column  move  past  until  the  head  of  it  wheeled 
away  beneath  a  fallen  bough;  and  the  thought  in- 
vaded her  brain,  now  so  perilously  clear,  that  she  and 
M'Crae,  in  their  long  adventure,  had  been  no  less  tiny 
and  obscure  in  comparison  with  their  surrounding 
wilderness  than  this  strangely  preoccupied  host.  In 
all  her  life  she  had  never  been  given  to  such  specula- 
tions ;  but  that  was  how  it  appeared  to  her  now.  "We 
are  just  ants,"  she  thought.  "God  cannot  see  us  any 
bigger  than  that."  A  strange  business.  .  .  .  Very 
strange.  It  was  hard  to  believe. 

When,  in  another  interlude  of  her  dream,  M'Crae 
arrived,  the  shadow  of  the  acacia  had  moved  away 
from  her,  and  she  found  that  she  was  lying  in  the 
tempered  sunshine  of  late  afternoon.  He  brought  her 
water.  That  was  the  thing  which  mattered  most. 
And  when  she  had  drunk  she  found  that  she  was  ready 
to  tackle  another  plug  of  biltong.  Little  by  little  the 
dream  atmosphere  faded. 

"I've  been  a  long  time,"  he  said,  "but  I  wanted  to 
make  sure  of  everything.  I  can  tell  you  we're  in  luck's 


272  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

way.  We  slept  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  water.  To 
think  of  it!  The  railway  lies  over  the  brow  of  the  hill 
on  our  right.  I  made  a  false  cast  for  it  at  first.  And 
there  is  not  only  the  railway  there,  but  a  sort  of  sta- 
tion. Now  you  can  be  sure  of  safety.  I  can  leave  you 
happily." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  both  knew  that  he  had  not 
spoken  the  truth;  but  she  also  knew  that  his  mind 
was  already  made  up  on  what  he  still  conceived  to  be 
his  duty  and  that,  however  tragically,  leave  her  he 
must. 

"I  found  a  man  there  working  in  the  rubber.  A 
Greek  I  took  him  to  be.  And  I  told  him  about  Godo- 
vius  and  his  levies  at  Luguru.  They  can't  send  help 
from  here:  but  the  stationmaster  has  sent  a  wire 
through  to  Kilossa.  Probably  they  thought  I  was 
mad.  He  was  old  and  very  fat;  but  I  saw  his  boys 
washing  a  woman's  clothes,  so  I  think  you  will  be  safe. 
So  now  I  shall  take  you  to  the  edge  of  the  bush  above 
the  station.  After  that  you  will  fend  for  yourself.  It 
may  be  difficult  .  .  .  but  I  know  how  brave  you  are, 
you  wonderful  child." 

"It  is  only  a  little  way,"  he  said,  "and  you  must  let 
me  carry  you.  I  know  that  you're  done,  my  darling. 
No  other  woman  could  have  stood  what  you  have 
stood  already.  If  I  put  everything  else  aside  I  should 
have  to  have  loved  you  for  that.  You  know  how  I  love 
you?" 

"Not  well  enough.  You  must  keep  on  telling  me. 
.  .  .  But  now,"  she  said,  "I  can  walk.  Do  they  know 
that  I  am  coming?  Does  that  Greek  woman  know?" 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  273 

"They  know  nothing.  Only  that  a  madman  out  of 
the  bush  has  brought  a  message  from  Luguru  and  has 
gone  again.  When  you  get  there  you  know  that  you 
will  be  a  prisoner." 

"But  the  Germans  are  not  at  war  with  the  women," 
she  said. 

"No  .  .  ."  he  said.  "I  am  sure  that  you  will  be 
safe.  A  white  woman  is  safe  anywhere  in  Africa  with 
white  men.  If  it  were  not  so  it  would  be  impossible 
for  women  to  live  here  at  all.  But  we  must  not  waste 
time.  You'll  put  your  arms  round  my  neck  and  I  shall 
lift  you." 

"I  will  put  my  arms  round  your  neck,  and  then  I 
will  kiss  you;  but  I  shall  not  let  you  carry  me.  You 
must  be  more  tired  than  me.  I've  been  resting  all 
day." 

"Then  you  shall  try,"  he  said  solemnly. 

He  lifted  her  to  her  feet  and  the  trees  swam  round 
her.  She  clutched  at  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  too 
were  part  of  the  swimming  world. 

"Now  you  see  .  .  ."  he  said. 

"It  was  getting  up  suddenly.  Now  I'm  better," 
she  protested;  and  so  he  let  her  have  her  way,  and 
they  set  off  slowly  together  in  the  cool  evening.  For 
a  little  way  she  would  try  to  walk,  and  then,  having 
confessed  that  she  was  tired,  she  allowed  him  to  take 
her  on  his  back  and  carry  her. 

In  this  way  they  passed  through  a  narrow  belt  of 
bush  and  descended  to  a  valley.  Here,  marvel  of 
marvels,  ran  a  little  stream,  where  water,  coloured 
red  with  the  stain  of  acacia  bark,  flowed  over  a  sandy 


274  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

bottom.  They  halted  there  for  a  moment,  and  Eva 
bathed  her  face,  her  arms  and  her  bruised  feet.  In  all 
her  life  she  had  never  known  water  so  wonderful; 
but  they  could  not  linger  there,  for  already  the  sky 
was  beginning  to  darken.  So  at  length  they  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  bush,  and  saw  beneath  them  the  valley 
in  which  the  railway  ran,  an  ordered  green  plantation 
of  rubber,  some  fields  of  sisal,  a  cluster  of  homely, 
white-washed  houses,  and  a  little  compound  in  which 
stood  a  group  of  paw-paw  trees  burdened  with  gourd- 
like  fruit. 

"Now  you  have  only  a  little  way  to  go,"  said 
M'Crae. 

There,  on  the  edge  of  the  dry  bush,  they  said  good- 
bye. In  the  story  of  their  strange  courtship  I  have 
imagined  many  things,  and  some  that  I  have  written 
were  told  to  me,  so  that  I  know  them  to  be  true.  I 
have  imagined  many  things  .  .  .  but  for  this  un- 
imaginable parting  I  have  no  words;  for,  as  you 
may  guess,  they  never  met  again. 


n 

This,  too,  is  the  end  of  Eva  Burwarton's  story.  I 
can  see  her  painfully  making  her  way  towards  the 
station  buildings  and  the  compound  in  which  the  paw- 
paw trees  were  growing,  turning,  perhaps,  to  look 
once  again  at  the  dusty  figure  of  M'Crae,  clear  at  first, 
but  in  a  little  while  becoming  merged  into  the  ashen 
grey  of  the  bush  and  the  bistre  of  burnt  grasses.  Per- 
haps it  is  true  that  they  have  never  been  more  to  me 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  27; 

than  figures  of  this  kind,  very  small  and  distant,  strug- 
gling with  feeble  limbs  upon  a  huge  and  sinister  back- 
ground. One  is  content  to  accept  them  as  this  and  as 
no  more :  for  an  action  of  mere  puppets  in  surround- 
ings so  vast  and  so  sombre  were  enough  to  arouse  one's 
imagination  and  to  claim  one's  pity.  Of  all  the  actors 
in  this  lonely  drama  it  was  never  my  fortune  to  know 
more  than  one :  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  rest  of  her 
story  matters  very  little.  If  you  would  have  it — and 
for  those  who  are  in  search  of  further  horrors  there 
is  horror  enough — it  is  all  written  in  the  Bluebook,  or 
White  Paper,  or  whatever  it  is  called,  which  tells 
of  the  persecutions  and  indignities  of  the  English 
prisoners  at  Taborah.  One  heard  enough  of  these 
things  at  Nairobi  in  the  winter  of  1916;  one  heard 
them  with  pity  and  with  admiration,  but  never  with 
the  thrilling  sense  of  drama,  remote  and  intense,  which 
underlay  Eva's  story  of  the  months  before.  She  didn't 
stay  long  in  Nairobi.  For  a  week  or  two  they  warm- 
douched  her  with  sympathies  and  chilled  her  with 
prayer  meetings,  and  then  they  sent  her  down  the 
line  with  her  unfortunate  companions,  and  shipped 
her  home  by  the  way  of  South  Africa.  That,  for  me, 
was  the  end  of  her  story.  Perhaps  she  returned  to  Far 
Forest.  I  don't  know ;  but  I  imagine  that  this  was  un- 
likely; for,  if  I  remember  rightly,  there  were  no  more 
of  her  family  left,  unless  it  were  an  aunt  to  whom  she 
used  to  write  from  Luguru,  an  aunt  who  lived  in 
Mamble — or  was  it  Pensax  ? — some  place  or  other  not 
very  far  away. 

In  those  days  it  was  my  business  to  visit  German 


276  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

prisoners  who  were  confined  in  the  camp  on  Nairobi 
Hill  near  the  K.A.R.  cantonments,  a  happy  and  well- 
fed  company,  very  different  from  our  famished  and 
fever-ridden  spectres  who  had  lain  in  prison  at  Ta- 
borah.  From  time  to  time  large  batches  of  these 
civilians  were  sent  away  to  be  repatriated  in  Germany ; 
and  when  others  came  to  take  their  place,  my  curiosity 
would  always  make  me  ask  them  if  they  knew  any- 
thing of  Luguru  or  of  Godovius,  for,  whether  I  would 
or  no,  my  mind  was  occupied  at  that  time  by  Eva's 
story.  Many  of  them  had  heard  of  Godovius.  The 
story  of  the  woman  who  had  been  killed  by  the  mamba 
was  popular;  any  lie  in  the  world  was  popular  that 
might  serve  to  ingratiate  them  with  the  hated  English. 
A  poor  crowd  ...  a  very  poor  crowd !  But  nobody 
at  all  professed  to  be  acquainted  with  James.  I  sup- 
pose he  had  not  been  long  enough  in  the  colony. 

One  day  my  luck  turned.  It  was  my  business  to 
treat  a  new  arrival  who  went  by  the  name  of  Rosen 
— something  or  other.  A  Jew  at  any  rate.  He  had 
been  left  behind  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Morogoro,  had  been  taken  unarmed,  had  claimed  to 
be  a  missionary,  and  had  been  treated  as  such.  Per- 
sonally I  am  convinced  that  he  was  a  waiter,  and  an 
appalling  specimen  at  that.  When  he  discovered  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  repatriation,  he  remembered 
that  he  had  been  born  at  Kalisch,  in  Poland,  and  was 
therefore  a  Russian.  Anything  in  the  world  to  keep 
out  of  Germany.  You  see,  the  papers  were  full  of  the 
stories  of  bread  riots  and  fat  tickets,  and,  for  all  his 
religious  protestations,  his  only  god,  as  far  as  I  could 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  277 

gather,  was  his  belly.  When  the  day  came  nearer  he 
sprung  an  attack  of  fever.  I'm  prepared  to  admit 
that  it  was  genuine  enough,  but  he  certainly  made  the 
most  of  it. 

"Herr  Doktor,"  he  said  to  me,  clasping  his  hands 
in  front  of  him,  so  that  I  could  see  no  less  than  ten 
black  finger-nails,  "it  is  probable  that  the  next  attack 
will  kill  me.  I  have  had  blackwater  fever  five  times. 
I  understand  this  disease.  I  have  been  for  many  years 
in  Africa,  and  if  you  will  pardon  me  saying  so,  I  un- 
derstand myself." 

So  did  I ;  but  although  I  hadn't  any  possible  use  for 
the  swine,  the  mere  mean  ingenuity  which  he  showed 
in  his  attempts  to  avoid  returning  to  Germany  amused 
me,  and  so,  sometimes,  I  let  him  talk.  He  had  lived 
in  England.  I  must  confess  that  for  a  missionary  he 
was  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  least  reputable 
bars  and  lounges  of  the  West  End.  Of  course  he  was 
a  waiter  ...  or  perhaps  he  had  been  a  steward  on  a 
British  liner.  He  was  great  on  idiomatic  English  and 
the  slang  of  the  nineties,  and  from  time  to  time  he 
would  trot  out  the  names  of  Englishmen  whom  he  had 
befriended  or  whose  lives  he  had  saved  in  German 
East.  One  day  he  startled  me  with  the  remembered 
name  of  Bullace.  "Bullace?"  I  said.  "Yes  ...  I 
knew  him.  Tell  me  about  him." 

"Ah,  Herr  Doktor,"  he  said,  "then  you  knew,  no 
doubt,  my  old  friend's  failing?  A  sad  thing  for  a 
brother  missonary.  Twice  I  nursed  him  with  what 
you  call  the  jim-jams." 


278  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

I  questioned  him  about  Luguru,  about  Godovius, 
about  James.  He  shook  his  head. 

"But  do  you  not  know  what  happened  at  Luguru 
early  in  the  war  ?"  he  said. 

At  last  he  had  found  a  chance  of  entertaining  me 
without  so  much  painful  effort.  He  settled  down  to  it. 
He  was  charmed  to  tell  me  everything  he  knew. 

It  surprised  him  that  we,  in  British  East,  should 
have  known  nothing  about  it.  Quite  a  sensation,  he 
said.  At  the  time  when  it  all  happened  he  had  been  in 
Kilossa.  He  was  at  great  pains  to  explain  that  his 
mission  lay  near  to  that  place.  Those  were  early  days 
of  the  war,  and  all  his  community  had  volunteered 
for  work — noncombatant  work — in  the  field.  They 
were  all  gathered  together  at  Kilossa,  waiting  for  or- 
ders. 

And  then,  one  day  a  message  came  over  the  wire 
from  a  small  station  near  M'papwa.  The  stationmas- 
ter,  a  fool  of  a  fellow,  had  been  given  a  message  about 
some  native  rising  at  Luguru.  He  hadn't  had  the 
sense  to  detain  the  messenger.  Madness  .  .  .  but  the 
Germans  were  such  a  simple,  trustful  people.  A  ris- 
ing at  Luguru,  where  the  levies  of  Godovius  were  be- 
lieved to  be  in  training;  where,  only  a  few  days  before, 
a  caravan  of  rifles  and  ammunition  had  been  sent. 
Still,  the  news  was  definite  enough,  and  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost.  Volunteers  were  asked  for.  Ober- 
Leutenant  Stein,  a  planter  himself,  was  put  in  charge. 
"And  I  offered  to  go  with  them,"  said  the  little  Jew. 

"But  you  are  a  missionary.  .  .  .  You  cannot  carry 
arms.  ,  ." 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  279 

"I  know  it,"  says  my  friend,  "but  there  is  also 
a  mission  at  Luguru,  and  the  missionary  there,  even 
if  he  is  an  Englishman,  is  my  brother.  It  was  my 
duty  to  go." 

They  shook  their  heads,  he  said;  they  tried  to  dis- 
suade him;  but  in  the  end  he  had  his  way.  Had  he 
not  held  the  Englishman  Bullace  drunk  in  his  arms? 
Had  he  not,  very  nearly,  succeeded  in  reforming  him? 

He  wept  for  Bullace. 

They  left  Morogoro  the  next  day  at  dawn.  Twenty 
whites,  a  hundred  askaris,  Wanyamweze,  trained  men. 
Stein  in  command:  a  man  who  had  been  long  in  the 
colony,  who  had  known  Africa  in  the  Herero  cam- 
paign, one  of  Karl  Peters'  men.  "He  knew  how  to 
deal  with  these  black  devils." 

They  moved  quickly ;  and  indeed  the  story  went  too 
quickly  for  me.  I  asked  him  about  Godovius.  "A 
Jew,"  said  he,  shaking  his  own  undeniably  Semitic 
nose,  implying  that  no  more  need  be  said.  "A  Jew 
.  .  .  and  a  very  strange  man.  You  know  the  story  of 
the  mamba?  A  fine  organiser,  and  greatly  respected 
by  the  Waluguru.  Rather  too  catholic  in  his  taste  for 
women  .  .  .  there  were  other  funny  stories  about  him 
.  .  .  but  then,  we  are  not  in  Europe;  we  must  not  be 
too  hard  on  the  sins  of  the  flesh.  The  tropics,  you 
know  .  .  ." 

On  the  third  day  they  came  to  Luguru.  The  peo- 
ple were  very  quiet,  cowering  in  their  villages.  Per- 
haps they  knew  what  was  coming.  The  column 
marched  in  pomp  through  the  forest  to  Njumba  ja 
Mweze.  A  pitiful  sight.  It  had  been  a  fine  house  for 


280  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  colonies,  well  built  of  stone,  almost  like  a  one- 
storeyed  house  at  home  in  Germany — in  Poland. 
Burnt.  Absolutely  gutted  with  fire.  He  remembered  the 
pathetic  appearance  of  a  grand  piano,  crushed  beneath 
a  fallen  beam,  worth,  he  supposed,  as  much  as  three 
thousand  rupees,  worth  half  that  second-hand,  now 
only  a  twisted  tangle  of  strings  and  a  warped  iron 
frame.  No  trace  of  Godovius  or  of  his  servants.  No 
trace  of  anything  in  the  world  but  ashes.  Stein  said 
nothing.  It  was  a  dangerous  thing  when  a  man  like 
Stein,  a  man  of  deep  feeling,  remained  silent. 

Next  they  went  to  the  mission.  They  had  expected 
to  find  the  same  sort  of  havoc,  but,  strangely  enough, 
the  house  was  standing.  "I  went  into  the  house  myself 
and  there  everything  was  quiet.  I  thought:  'God  is 
great.  This  is  a  miracle.  They  have  spared  the  holy 
place !'  I  offered  up  a  prayer.  It  was  most  touching. 
There,  in  the  kitchen,  was  a  table  and  on  it  a  piece  of 
woman's  sewing  and  a  work-basket.  In  the  bedroom, 
the  very  room  where  I  had  saved  the  life  of  Bullace, 
another  table  on  which  there  was  an  open  Bible.  But 
I  saw  that  the  spinners  had  hung  their  webs  across  the 
room.  I  saw  a  great  big  spinner  [gesture]  fat  as  a 
black  chief,  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  web.  Ugh! 
...  No  man  had  lived  there  for  days.  I  thought  of 
the  woman  whose  work  was  in  the  kitchen.  I  went 
to  Stein.  'Look,'  I  said,  'there  has  been  black  work, 
black  work.  .  .  .  These  devils  have  killed  them.' 
Stein  said  nothing. 

"I  thought,  'These  people,  the  missionary  and  his 
wife,  had  gone  to  Godovius  for  protection.  Alas! 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  281 

they  have  shared  his  fate.  Now  there  are  three  white 
people  to  be  avenged.'  Stein  told  the  askaris  to  load 
their  rifles.  He  himself  walked  behind  the  machine- 
gun  porters.  'Now  we  will  see  to  these  Waluguru 
swine,'  he  said.  Stein  was  a  man  of  few  words  but 
a  colossal  courage.  Later  he  was  killed,  up  on  the 
Usambara  line.  'Come,  you,'  he  said.  .  .  ." 

They  went  down  through  the  bush  to  the  forest. 
There  was  an  askari  who  knew  the  Waluguru  villages, 
and  he  showed  the  way.  "We  marched  past  the 
church,  and  I  thought  to  myself:  'It  is  right  that  I 
should  go  in  there,  to  the  place  where  my  friend  Bui- 
lace  worked  and  prayed.  I  will  go  in  and  offer  a 
prayer  myself.'  I  opened  the  door.  .  .  .  Pff!  .  .  . 
But  the  stench  was  too  much.  'My  God!'  I  said. 
'What  is  this?'  .  .  . 

"You  are  a  Protestant.  You  do  not  know  ...  If 
you  had  been  in  the  Roman  Catholic  churches  in 
Poland  [he  got  it  right  that  time]  you  would  have  seen 
the  human-size  crucifixes  which  frighten  the  children 
with  a  big  dead  Christ.  It  was  on  the  pulpit.  They 
had  hung  him  there  on  the  pulpit  with  big  nails. 
Through  his  neck  was  a  carpenter's  chisel.  The  nails 
and  the  hammer  were  lying  on  the  floor.  In  his  black 
coat  he  hung  with  his  feet  tied  together.  He  was  far 
gone,  as  you  say.  Pff!  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  very  bad. 
And  the  black  swine  had  mutilated  him  in  the  way  that 
Africans,  even  our  own  askaris,  use  with  their  enemies. 
You  know  .  .  .  Pff!  ...  It  was  too  awful.  I  tell 
you  I  could  not  stay  there  to  offer  up  the  prayer  that 
I  had  intended  in  that  place.  I  went  out.  I  could 


282  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

not  bear  the  sight  of  that  crucified  man.  I  ran  after 
them.  I  was  afraid  to  be  alone.  You  will  under- 
stand; I  was  not  allowed  to  carry  arms  .  .  . 

"I  told  Stein.  Stem  said  nothing:  but  I  know  that 
his  blood  boiled  nobly.  Then  the  firing  began.  It  was 
just.  Never  was  there  such  a  revenge.  We  went  from 
village  to  village.  Everywhere  the  fires  crackled  up. 
Everywhere  they  ran  screaming,  the  black  pigs,  women 
and  all.  Stein  had  the  machine  gun.  The  askaris 
knew  what  had  to  be  done.  By  evening  that  forest 
was  cleansed.  I  do  not  think  the  Waluguru  will 
trouble  us  again.  There  is  only  one  way  of  teaching 
savages. 

"That  night  we  slept  in  the  mission.  There  was  not 
room  for  all  of  us  and  so  I  and  another  gentleman 
went  to  rest  in  a  little  banda  in  the  garden  on  a  heap 
of  sisal.  There,  too,  the  woman  had  been.  It  pained 
our  hearts  to  think  of  that  woman.  But  we  knew  she 
had  been  avenged.  We  had  done  our  duty,  even  for 
our  enemies.  The  place  was  full  of  whisky  bottles. 
Worse  luck!  [idiom]  they  were  all  empty. 

"That  was  the  end  of  it.  Next  day  we  left  Luguru. 
We  never  found  the  woman.  I  expect  she  went  to 
Godovius.  Trust  Godovius  for  that.  But  one  more 
thing  we  found.  It  was  the  body  of  another  man,  or 
as  much  as  the  hyenas  and  the  white  ants  had  left. 
No  doubt  he  was  an  Englishman,  though  we  did  not 
know  there  was  another  there.  He  had  a  rifle  with 
him,  a  Mannlicher,  which  I  should  have  liked  myself 
if  I  had  not  been  forbidden  to  carry  arms.  The  white 
ants  had  eaten  most  of  his  clothes  and  some  wild 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON  283 

beast  had  carried  away  one  arm :  but  he  had  on  him  a 
little  packet  of  letters,  or  rather  notes.  I  picked  them 
up  and  put  them  in  my  pocket,  thinking  there  might  be 
paper  money  therewith.  If  I  had  taken  money  it 
would  not  have  harmed  him.  When  I  began  to  ex- 
amine it  I  found  that  it  was  all  written  in  English. 
He  wrote  badly,  like  a  child,  that  man;  and  you  may 
believe  me  or  not — it  was  all  notes  on  places  in  our 
colony:  on  good  water-holes  and  winter  streams  and 
things  of  that  kind.  It  was  an  affair  for  the  General 
Staff.  You  see  he  was  a  spy  ...  an  English  spy, 
who  had  been  killed  by  thirst  or  sickness  and  had  his 
arm  carried  off  by  the  hyenas.  A  brave  man,  perhaps. 
So  ...  it  was  the  right  death  for  a  spy.  See,  this 
was  in  the  early  days  of  the  war,  and  already  your 
spies  were  near  Luguru! 

"And  now,  Herr  Doktor,  you  see  how  weak  I  am. 
You  see  how  this  simple  story  had  tired  me?  Ah 
.  .  .  this  accursed  climate!  It  weakens  all  of  us.  I 
think  you  too  are  pale.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before 
I  am  fit  to  travel  .  .  .  the  strain  of  a  sea  voyage.  Is 
it  not  true?  How  can  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have 
done  for  me?"  He  would  have  pressed  my  hand. 

I  left  him.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  day  was 
heavier  than  usual.  I  wished  that  the  rains  would 
come  and  have  done  with  all  this  alternating  oppres- 
sion and  boisterous  wind.  I  left  the  camp.  I  went 
past  a  little  garden  where  the  children  of  some 
prisoners,  little  creatures  with  flaxen  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  we*e  playing  at  soldiers,  and  walked  due  south 
until  I  came  to  the  escarpment  of  the  hills.  Below  me 


284  THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

the  levels  of  the  Athi  plains  stretched  without  end, 
dun-coloured  and  dappled  with  huge  shadows  like  the 
upper  waters  of  the  Bristol  Channel,  or  rather  of  some 
vaster  and  more  gloomy  sea.  It  was  an  impressive 
and  wholly  soothing  scene.  I  sat  there  until  the  sun 
had  set,  and  on  the  remotest  horizon  the  shadow  of 
Kilimanjaro,  a  hundred  miles  away,  rose  against  the 
sky.  I  sat  there  till  t  grew  dark,  and  the  great 
plains  faded  from  me,  thinking  of  the  three  men  who 
died  at  Luguru :  of  James  the  martyr  predestinate ;  of 
Godovius  consumed  in  the  flames  which  he  had 
kindled;  of  M'Crae  whom  Eva  Burwarton  had  loved. 
It  was  very  still.  All  the  shallow  life  of  Nairobi  might 
have  been  as  far  away  as  the  great  mountain's  filmy 
shadow.  And  then,  when  I  turned  to  make  my  way 
back  in  the  darkness  to  the  club,  a  sudden  sound 
startled  me.  It  was  the  beating  of  a  drum  in  the  lines 
of  the  King's  African  Rifles.  I  stopped.  In  that 
moment  I  knew  that  for  all  our  pretences  of  civilisa- 
tion I  was  still  living  in  a  wholly  savage  land.  I  looked 
up  to  the  sky,  to  the  south  with  its  strange  spaces  and 
unfamiliar  stars.  I  saw  Orion,  the  old  hunter, 
stretched  across  the  vault  The  beating  of  the  drum 
awakened  some  ancient  adventurous  spirit  in  my  blood. 
I  knew  that  this  was  the  land  above  all  others  which 
men  of  European  race  have  never  conquered.  It  was 
a  strange  moment,  full  of  a  peculiar,  half-bitter 
ecstasy.  I  gazed  at  the  stars  and  murmured  to  my- 
self :  "This  is  Africa.  .  This  is  Africa." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


£    MAY  16  197% 


JRL 


Form  L9-Series  444 


